0.    p.    FITZGERALD 


SUNSET  VIEWS 


IN   THREE   PARTS. 


BY 

BISHOP  O.  P.  FITZGERALD, 


•/  am  a  fart  of  all  that  I  have  »?e^."--TENNYSON 


Nashville,  Tenn.  ;  Dallas,  Tex.  : 

Publishing  House  of  the  M.  E.  Church,  South. 

Smith  &  Lamar,  Agents. 

1906. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1900, 

By  the  Book  Agents  of  the  M.  E.  Church,  South, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


TO  BE  READ  OR  SKIPPED. 

In  most  of  the  things  that  they  do,  men  act  from 
mixed  motives.  Whether  the  making  of  this  book 
shall  prove  an  exception  to  this  general  rule,  the  reader 
will  judge.  Of  this  I  am  sure  :  The  chief  motive  is  to 
magnify  the  mercy  of  God.  And  the  thought  that  these 
pages  may  make  a  channel  for  his  grace  to  flow^  into  oth- 
er souls  w^arms  my  heart  as  I  pen  these  words. 

Several  kindly  voices  had  said  to  me :  "  Tell  the 
story  of  the  men  and  times  you  have  seen,  in  your  own 
way."  The  thought  took  hold  of  my  mind,  and  almost 
grew  into  a  purpose.  I  have  not  the  vanity  or  the 
idiocy  to  think  that  my  life  is  worth  writing.  I  would 
not  do  it  if  I  could.  No  man  who  tells  the  story  of 
his  own  life  ever  tells  all.  There  are  reserves  of  self- 
respect  and  privacy  that  are  sacred  to  all  save  the  hope- 
lessly vulgar  and  vile.  I  have  no  grudges  to  settle. 
I  do  not  wish  to  leave  a  line  written  by  this  hand  that 
will  give  pain  to  any  human  heart.  Posthumous  mal- 
ice is  the  meanest  of  all :  it  combines  both  malignity 
and  cowardice.  The  Christian  statute  of  limitations 
applies  to  all  grudges  in  noble  souls,  when  time  has 
come  to  cool  the  heat  of  passion  or  to  clarify  the  judg- 
ment.    Death  cancels  all  debts  of  reprisal. 

A  week  ago  I  decided,  if  so  God  willed,  that  I  would 
print  these  chapters  in  their  present  form.  This  final 
decision  was  made  just  as  the  setting  sun  flushed  with 
glory  the  hills  that  encircle  Nashville,  the  beloved  city 
whose  people  are  like  kinsfolk  to  me,  from  whose  homes 
so  many  elect  souls  dear  to  me  have  already  gone  up  to 
the  city  that  hath  foundations  whose  maker  and  builder 

is  God.  |y!57403 


CONFIDENTIAL. 

This  book  is  now  submitted  to  my  friends  in  the 
shape  of  its  original  plan.  The  sermons  and  the  lec- 
tures are  omitted.  Men  and  things  take  their  place. 
Thus  the  book  is  made  a  homogeneous  work.  If  it 
shall  thereby  be  made  more  acceptable  to  the  readers, 
I  shall  be  grateful.  My  literary  constituency  has  al- 
ways been  generous  in  its  treatment  of  me  as  a  book- 
maker. If  this,  my  last  endeavor  on  that  line,  may 
give  them  any  measure  of  pleasure  and  profit,  I  shall 
be  glad  and  thankful.  O.  P.  Fitzgerald. 

Nashville,  Tenn. 

(iv) 


SUB-PREFACE. 

To  burn  or  to  print  these  pages — that  was  the  ques- 
tion with  me  when,  thinking  the  time  of  my  departure 
was  at  hand,  I  was  setting  my  affairs  in  order.  Much 
stuff,  such  as  it  was,  was  consumed,  but  these  pages 
were  spared  for  reasons  that  may  be  guessed  at  by  the 
discerning.  My  old  friends  will  be  indulgent.  If  any 
of  them  shall  conclude  that  I  have  ventured  once  too 
often  as  a  bookmaker,  so  be  it.  I  have  not  been  the 
first,  nor  will  I  be  the  last,  to  err  in  this  way. 

The  AuTtroR. 


FOREWORD. 

That  vision  of  the  sunsetting  came  to  me  in  a  dream 
of  the  night.  It  was  a  vision  that  excelled  all  that 
mine  eye  had  seen  in  all  my  vs^aking  hours.  I  stood 
on  the  top  of  a  peak,  high  and  lifted  up  above  ten 
thousand  lesser  ones  grouped  below  and  all  around  it, 
all  bright  with  the  glory  of  a  cloudless  sunset.  The 
silence  was  holy.  The  note  of  a  song  bird,  the  chirp 
of  an  insect,  or  the  flutter  of  a  butterfly's  wing  would 
have  jarred  on  my  ear  then  and  there.  I  had  sunk  to 
sleep  after  a  day  of  weakness  and  pain  —  thinking, 
thinking,  thinking,  and  praying  :  thinking  that  I  might 
next  awake  in  the  spirit-world  or  linger  on  here  only 
to  suffer,  and  praying  that  grace  might  be  given  me 
to  go  or  to  wait,  as  it  pleased  God.  The  vision  came 
when  it  was  needed  by  the  soul  that  clung  to  God  and 
was  sweetly  tuned  by  him  for  its  touch.  I  awoke 
with  a  blessedness  in  my  spirit  that  cannot  be  put  into 
words.  A  still,  small  voice  whispered  to  my  inner  ear  : 
"At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light."     And  it  is. 

The  title  of  this  book  was  born  of  that  vision.  The 
blessing  of  it  abides.  O.  P.  F. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To  Be  Read  or  Skipped iii 

Confidential iv 

Sub-preface v 

Foreword vi 

Blood  Will  Tell,  but  Not  All 3 

An  Early  Start 9 

My  First  Schooling 15 

A  Sad  Night  Ride : 21 

How  Methodism  Kept  Its  Hold 27 

Taking  Shape 33 

Formative  Influences 39 

Four  Old-time  Revivalists 47 

A  Unique  Pedagogical  Experience 55 

In  Richmond  in  the  Forties 61 

Afloat 69 

A  Turning  Point 77 

Initiated ' 83 

My  Environment 89 

My  First  Sermon 97 

Preaching  to  the  Blacks 103 

Sent  to  Savannah 107 

Savannah 113 

To  Cahfornia 119 

On  the  Pacific  Side 127 

Cahfornia  as  We  Found  It 135 

Those  Early  CaHfornians 141 

Some  Preachers I49 

Five  Fathers  of  Georgia  Methodism 159 

The  Old  Panel 169 

A  Midwinter  Meditation 1 79 

(vii) 


viii  Contents. 

PAGE 

A  Little  Note i8o 

My  Impulsive  Friend 183 

Some  Types  of  Methodist  Women 191 

Our  Jewish  Friends 199 

Sunset  Views  at  Seabreeze 205 

The  Novel-reading  Pest 211 

A  More  Excellent  Way 217 

Money-makers. . '. , 223 

Tom  Reed 229 

Our  New  Year  Motto 233 

The  Future  Safe „ .  .  .  239 

Birthday  Reflections 243 

Mark  Hanna  Astonished 247 

Our  Irish  Friends 253 

Transfigured  Singers 259 

An  Abiding  Benediction 269 

William  McKendree 273 

McTyeire  as  an  Editor 281 

The   Question   We  Are  All  Asking:    Why    Do 

They  Not  Come  Back  ? 291 

The  Son  of  Man 301 

Our  Three  Pillows 305 

Big  Ab  :   A  Typical  Old-time  Negro 309 

Another  Question  All  Are  Asking :  When  and 

Why  Did  Miracles  Cease  ? 315 

Led  by  the  Spirit 325 

John  M.  Daniel  and  Some  of  His  Contemporaries  331 

Sunset  Views  from  My  Bedroom  Window 339 

A  Fresh  Interpretation 347 

The  Master's  Message 35 1 

Heredity 355 

"The    Goal" , 359 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL,  BUT  NOT  ALL. 

1 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL,  BUT  NOT  ALL 

BLOOD  will  tell.  From  Adam  and  Eve 
down  to  this  day,  this  has  been  an  ac- 
cepted truism.  From  Abraham  to  the 
latest  born  inheritors  of  titles  or"  dollars, 
men  have  loved  to  air  or  invent  their 
pedigrees.  Our  family  was  like  other  families  in 
this  respect.  The  lower  the  family  fortunes  sunk 
— and  they  sank  to  a  point  that  was  very  low  at 
one  time — the  more  they  had  to  say  as  to  what 
they  had  been  in  earlier  days.  Perspective  smoothes 
genealogies  as  well  as  landscapes.  Distance  lends 
enchantment  to  the  view  where  the  imagination 
gilds  the  summits  of  vision.  It  is  well  that  this  is 
so.  There  is  enough  that  is  petty. and  pitiful  in 
our  everyday  life  to  give  us  cause  for  thankfulness 
for  the  glamour  that  is  on  the  past,  as  well  as  for  the 
glory  that  through  faith  and  hope  gild  the  future. 

My  parents — Richard  Fitzgerald  and  Martha 
Hooper — were  both  Virginians,  and  belonged,  at 
least  in  a  chronological  sense,  to  the  first  families. 
I  could  wish  that  I  knew  the  verity  of  the  tradition 
that  this  Virginia  branch  of  the  Fitzgeralds  was 
akin  to  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  who  was  a  martyr 
for  the  cause  of  freedom  for  Ireland.  There  is  no 
nobler  name  in  Irish  history.  This  is  saying  much. 
The  noblest  Irishmen  are  among  the  noblest  of 
earth's  true  nobility,  whether  titled  or  untitled.  A 
mean  Irishman  is  the  meanest  of  men.  Irishmen 
are  extremists,  patriots  of  the  first  quality  or  trai- 
tors of  blackest  dye ;  martyrs  glad  to  die  for  truth 
or  ready  to  sell  it  to  the  highest  bidder.     God  bless 

(3) 


4  Sunset  Views. 

old  Ifplatid !  God  bless  her  children  wherever 
they  may  wander  to  the  latest  generation ! 

The  families  of  the  Hoopers,  the  Powells,  the 
Goodes,  the  Grants,  the  Irbys  were  branches  of  the 
family  tree.  My  maternal  grandmother  was  a  mar- 
vel of  energy  in  business  and  fervor  in  religion. 
She  had  every  soul  on  the  plantation  aroused  at 
daybreak  and  ready  for  work.  Her  gift  in  prayer 
was  mighty.  At  a  camp  meeting  her  prayers 
seemed  to  move  heaven  and  earth.  She  ran  a  dis- 
tillery famous  for  the  quality  of  its  whisky.  There 
is  no  question  of  her  sincerity  as  a  Christian.  At 
that  time  members  of  th'e  various  branches  of  the 
Church  of  Christ  took  their  drams  as  a  matter  of 
course,  ran  distilleries,  and  '* treated"  in  election 
campaigns.  The  stillhouse  and  '*  meetinghouse  " 
were  owned  and  managed  by  the  same  persons  as 
a  matter  of  course.  The  Methodists  were  among 
the  first  to  make  war  against  whisky  in  that  region, 
as  elsewhere  in  this  land.  The  fires  of  that  old 
stillhouse  have  long  since  ceased  to  burn,  the  very 
site  of  it  is  lost;  but  the  songs  of  the  Methodists 
are  still  heard  among  those  Dan  River  hills.  The 
dear  old  mother  in  Israel  now  sees  more  clearly 
what  few  could  see  in  her  day — the  sin  and  curse 
of  strong  drink — and  when  we  join  in  the  new 
song  in  heaven,  she  will  be  there  too.  The  ideas 
and  standards  have  changed,  and  changed  for  the 
better,  during  the  intervening  decades.  God  is 
God,  and  this  world  is  his  world. 

An  illustration  of  the  reign  of  God's  grace  in  the 
world  may  come  in  just  here.  Among  the  negroes 
on  the  farm  was  *' Uncle Lunnon,"  who  in  an  earlier 
and  darker  time  came  over  from  Africa  as  a  compul- 
sory immigrant  in  a  British  slave  ship.  He  was  al- 
most as  strong  as  a  gorilla,  and  very  profane  and 
hot-tempered.     But  he  was  honest   and  truthful. 


Blood  Will  Tell,  hut  Not  AIL  5 

He  lived  to  be  one  hundred  and  twenty  years  old — 
the  oldest  man  of  any  cwlor  that  I  ever  saw.  The 
most  remarkable  fact  concerning  Uncle  Lunnon 
was  his  conversion  in  the  last  year  of  his  life. 
By  the  grace  of  God  he  was  brought  under  deep 
conviction  by  this  thought  which  came  into  his 
mind:  *'  I  have  been  faithful  to  my  earthly  mars- 
ter,  but  I've  been  a  mean  nigger  toward  my  heav- 
enly Marster.  I've  lived  longer  than  any  nigger  I 
ever  heard  of;  in  my  prime  I  was  stronger  than 
any  man,  black  or  white,  I  ever  met.  But  I've 
been  a  cussin'  and  not  a  prayin'  man  all  my  life. 
I  am  a  mean  nigger."  So,  to  use  his  own  lan- 
guage. Uncle  Lunnon  put  the  case  to  himself.  In 
genuine  penitence  he  bowed  before  God,  and 
helped  by  the  counsel  and  prayers  of  my  uncle. 
Bannister  Fitzgerald,  Uncle  Lunnon  was  led  to 
lay  hold  of  the  hope  set  before  sinners  in  the  gos- 
pel of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  The  Spirit  itself 
maketh  intercession  for  us.  If  any  channel  is 
left  open  in  a  human  soul,  the  grace  of  God  will 
flow  in. 

Heredity  is  a  potent  factor  in  every  human  life. 
Free  agency  is  also  a  fact.  Heredity  may  give  a 
trend  upward  or  downward,  but  free  agency  de- 
termines the  movement.  Not  fatality,  but  free 
agency,  fixes  destiny.  The  rule  of  judgment  is 
equitable.  The  Judge  is  infallible.  Where  little 
is  given,  little  is  required;  and  where  much  is 
given,  much  is  required.  Lack  of  effort  is  the 
only  ground  of  condemnation  of  any  human  soul. 
The  slothful  servant,  not  the  one  less  gifted,  is  the 
one  who  went  into  outer  darkness — not  only  by  the 
sentence  of  the  Judge,  but  by  the  drift  of  his  own 
indolence,  or  by  the  perversity  of  his  own  will. 
No  soul  ever  perished  in  any  other  way. 


AN  EARLY  START. 


AN  EARLY  START. 

WHEN  two  days  old,  I  came  into  the 
Church  of  Christ  in  a  sense  good  and 
true,  and  have  been  in  it  in  some 
sense  until  now.  Membership  with 
me  means  membership  forever.  The 
Church  militant  merges  into  the  Church  trium- 
phant. The  Church  is  the  one  organization  on 
earth  in  which  membership  never  lapses.  The 
reader  understands  my  meaning  when  I  say  that  I 
came  into  the  Church  when  two  days  old — that  is 
to  say,  I  was  then  dedicated  to  God  in  baptism. 
Dr.  Abram  Penn,  of  the  Virginia  Conference,  was 
the  administrator.  The  second  member  of  my 
*' given"  or  Christian  name  is  Penn,  and  was 
given  for  that  man  of  God,  whose  memory  is 
blessed.  After  pouring  or  sprinkling  upon  my 
head  the  crystal  drops  that  symbolize  the  promised 
grace  that  cleanses  the  soul  through  the  atoning 
blood  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  he  knelt  at  the 
bedside  and  prayed  that  the  man-child  might  live 
before  the  Lord ;  that  he  might  be  a  disciple  of 
Jesus;  that  he  might  be  a  Methodist  preacher.  "  I 
felt  the  answer,"  said  my  mother  to  me  with  wet 
eyes  in  a  low  voice  that  I  seem  to  hear  now  as  I 
write  the  words.  She  felt  the  answer — and  so 
have  I  all  my  life.  Christiaps  used  to  talk  that 
way  in  those  days  concerning  prayer.  They  be- 
lieved that  the  prayer  of  faith  touches  God ,  and  that 
God  can  and  does  touch  the  petitioner  and  the  sub- 
ject of  the  prayer  at  the  same  moment.  The  old 
Book  seems  to  put  it  the  same  way.  Many  Christians 
reach  this  level  at  times  in  their  lives.     It  is  a  high 

(9) 


lO  Sunset  Views. 

plane:  up  there  the  air  is  very  pure  and  the  light 
is  clear-shining.  My  mother  had  that  sort  of  faith. 
According  to  her  faith  it  was  done  unto  her:  she 
lived  to  know  that  the  boy-child  she  gave  to  God 
in  the  baptismal  covenant  was  a  minister  of  the 
gospel  of  Jesus  Christ.  My  dear,  Christian  mother ! 
She  w^as  said  to  be  wonderfully  beautiful  in  her 
youth.  To  me  she  was  always  beautiful.  She 
was  a  woman  of  many  sorrows.  The  last  time 
I  saw  her  the  marks  of  age  and  pain  and  grief 
were  on  her  face.  I  shall  see  her  again,  clothed  in 
beauty  greater  than  that  of  her  bridal  morning,  up 
yonder  in  that  land  where  the  weary  rest.  She 
was  a  sweet  singer,  and  her  songs  were  mostly  in 
the  minor  key.  She  had  sorrows  of  her  own,  and 
was  touched  by  all  the  sorrow  of  the  circles  in 
which  she  moved,  from,  the  highest  to  the  lowest. 
She  ministered  to  all,  and  was  loved  by  all.  These 
many  years  she  has  been  within  the  vail.  I  shall 
know  her  when  we  meet,  and  the  rest  of  the  city 
of  God  will  be  completer  when  once  more  I  feel 
the  clasp  of  her  arms. 

Yes,  I  came  into  the  Church  when  two  days 
old,  and  the  tie  was  never  wholly  broken.  The 
relation  of  the  baptized  children  of  the  Church 
to  the  Church  and  its  Head  is  very  sacred  to 
every  parent  who  knows  and  feels  what  is  meant 
by  the  baptism  of  children.  Many  show  that 
they  neither  know  nor  feel  its  solemn  and  bless- 
ed significance.  There  will  be  an  awakening 
and  a  reform  in  the  brighter  day  that  is  com- 
ing !n  Christendom.  Then  will  be  understood 
the  fullness  and  sweetness  of  the  meaning  of  the 
Master's  words:  *' Suffer  the  little  children  to 
come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is 
the  kingdom  of  heaven."  What  do  the  words 
mean?     We  may  be  sure  that  they  do   not  mean 


An  Early  Start.  ii 

that  our  children  are  farther  from  God  and  lower 
in  privilege  in  the  New  Testament  Church  than 
under  the  old  dispensation.  We  may  be  sure  that 
they  do  not  mean  that  our  children  must  of  neces- 
sity go  into  sin  and  be  stained  and  maimed  and 
stunted  in  their  spiritual  development  by  it.  We 
may  be  sure  that  they  do  not  mean  that  they  are 
to  be  turned  loose  in  the  world  and  branded  by 
the  devil,  afterwards  to  be  lassoed  and  tamed  if 
possible  by  special  effort.  No,  no  !  The  Master's 
words  must  mean  at  least  this  much:  that  the 
baptized  children  of  the  Church  belong  to  him ; 
they  are  initially  inducted  into  his  kingdom ;  they 
have  the  promise  of  prevenient  grace  and  guidance 
up  to  the  line  of  moral  accountability.  Then 
what?  Just  this:  they  may  and  ought  to  tide  right 
over  by  faith  into  the  conscious  salvation  of  the 
gospel.  Faith  is  choice — the  choice  of  the  parent 
at  first,  the  choice  of  the  child  when  choice  for  it 
is  possible.  My  mother  felt  the  answer  to  her 
prayer  of  faith  at  my  baptism:   I  feel  it  now. 

The  millennium  cannot  come  until  the  Church 
shall  have  assumed  its  proper  relation  to  the  chil- 
dren of  the  Church.  If  it  were  to  come,  it  could 
not  stay  with  a  Church  that  allows  a  wall  of  ice  to 
shut  ofi  her  children  from  her  communion.  Ques- 
tion: May  not  the  lapse  into  sin  of  so  many  chil- 
dren in  the  families  of  ministers  of  the  gospel  and 
other  good  people  be  owing  to  their  error  at  this 
point?  The  religious  natures  of  their  children 
bud  into  initial  life  normally  at  an  early  age,  and 
are  killed  by  the  frosts  of  neglect  and  delay.  They 
may  not  have  a  second  budding  time:  if  they  do, 
will  not  the  growth  be  a  stunted  growth?  The 
promise  is  to  you  and  your  children  in  the  present 
tense  for  all.  Let  him  and  her  that  readeth  un- 
derstand. 


MY  FIRST  SCHOOLING. 


MY  FIRST  SCHOOLING. 

THE  image  of  my  first  school-teacher  rises 
before  me  as  I  begin  this  chapter — that  of 
a  sweet-faced,  sweet-voiced,  holy  woman, 
who  opened  the  daily  sessions  with  a 
prayer  that  made  us  feel  that  she  was 
talking  with  God  and  that  he  was  there.  The  dis- 
cipline of  her  school  was  strict,  but  it  was  the 
strictness  of  a  constraining  and  pervading  personal 
influence  rather  than  a  code  of  rules  or  fear  of 
punishment.  A  boy  about  my  own  age  one  day 
was  detected  in  a  falsehood,  and  was  told  to  stand 
in  a  corner  and  think  of  his  sin  against  God.  All 
the  corporal  punishment  I  ever  felt  or  witnessed 
in  all  my  life  never  impressed  me  with  the  guilt  and 
shame  of  falsehood  as  did  that  object  lesson.  She 
somehow  made  us  feel  that  all  sin  w^as  sacrilegious 
as  well  as  mean.  We  all  loved  her.  The  image 
of  Rebecca  Field — that  was  her  name — keeps  its 
place  in  my  heart  undimmed.  She  was  what 
coarse  people  call  an  old  maid — one  of  those 
sweet-souled  and  finely-tuned  women  who,  mak- 
ing no  homes  of  their  own,  bless  every  home  they 
touch;  one  of  those  Christlike  spirits  that,  with  a 
self-abnegation  incomprehensible  to  lower  natures, 
live  for  others,  sweetening  this  dull,  sordid  world 
and  ripening  for  that  other  world  beyond  where, 
with  that  other  Mary  whom  Jesus  loved  and  a  blessed 
company  of  such  elect  souls,  they  will  find  their  re- 
ward and  fit  companionship.  That  long  sentence 
grew  upon  me,  but  its  length  will  be  excused  when 
the  reader  is  told  that  this  holy  woman,  my  first 
teacher,  gave  me  a  love  for  all  such  that  I  can 
never  lose. 

("5) 


1 6  Sunset  Views. 

My  next  teacher  was  a  man — a  man  to  be  re- 
membered. He  was  a  good  man,  but  severe,  with 
notions  of  school  government  and  discipline  quite 
in  contrast  with  those  held  by  my  first  teacher. 
He  did  not  spoil  his  pupils  by  sparing  the  rod.  He 
whipped  them  with  apparent  enjoyment  and  ex- 
traordinary energy  and  frequency.  Those  gum 
and  hickory  switches,  four  or  five  in  number, 
were  placed  above  his  desk,  not  for  ornament,  but 
for  use.  I  heard  him  say  more  than  once  that  I 
was  his  favorite  scholar:  he  exhibited  his  favorit- 
ism by  whipping  me  more  than  the  others.  Under 
the  circumstances  I  was  not  very  proud  of  the 
distinction.  Fear  and  force  ruled  his  school. 
The  boys  hated  and  feared  him,  and  loved  to  an- 
noy him  as  much  as  he  seemed  to  enjoy  flogging 
them.  It  was  a  hard  time  for  both  teacher  and 
pupils.  Once  during  the  term  we  >' turned  him 
out ' '  for  a  holiday,  and  it  was  done  by  main  force : 
a  big  boy  asked  for  a  holiday,  and  was  refused; 
and  then  the  irate  pedagogue  was  thrown  to  the 
floor  and  held  down  until  he  agreed  to  the  demand. 
We  went  away  triumphant  and  rejoicing.  But 
when  we  came  back  after  the  holiday  was  over, 
he  '*  got  even"  with  us,  and  more.  Those  gum 
and  hickory  switches  made  up  for  lost  time.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  to  me  the  memory  of  the  teach- 
er that  prayed  and  ruled  by  love  is  sweeter  than  that 
of  the  one  who  whipped  and  ruled  by  fear. 

My  third  teacher  was  a  quaint  old  Irish-Ameri- 
can, a  fine  scholar,  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school, 
whose  passion  was  mathematics  and  whose  special 
abhorrence  was  faulty  syntax.  He  was  not  averse 
to  the  use  of  the  rod  in  dealing  with  boys,  but  he 
never  gave  a  blow  to  a  girl:  the  chivalry  of  his 
race  on  its  upper  side  was  in  his  blood  and  breed- 
ing.    An  Irishman's  best,  let  me  again  sa}^  is  as 


My  First  Schooling.  17 

good  as  the  best  to  be  found  anywhere  on  earth. 
He  would  show  a  partiaHty  toward  the  girls  that 
made  the  boys  angry  sometimes.  At  this  distance 
this  trait  lends  a  grace  to  his  memory.  His  weak- 
ness leaned  in  the  direction  of  a  chivalrous  senti- 
ment that  has  made  half  of  the  poetry  of  the 
world  and  a  large  part  of  its  blessedness.  It  is  a 
pleasant  fact  to  record  that  my  old  Irish-American 
schoolmaster  became  a  Christian  man.  He  was 
converted  at  a  Methodist  camp  meeting,  and  was 
quaintly  demonstrative  on  the  occasion.  On  the 
camp  ground  he  had  an  enemy,  a  man  named 
Kemp.  Glowing  with  his  hrst  love  as  a  Christian 
he  sought  his  enemy,  and  finding  him  in  the  midst 
of  a  group  of  men,  he  grasped  his  hand,  saying 
impulsively:  '*Kemp,  give  me  your  hand — I  feel 
humble  enough  to  shake  hands  with  a  dog  I  "  The 
•old  man  kept  the  faith  unto  the  end  of  his  life. 

My  next  and  last  teacher  was  a  small  man, 
quick  of  motion  and  speech,  with  a  big  head  cov- 
ered with  black  bushy  hair,  spotless  in  his  apparel, 
jealous  of  his  dignity,  with  a  passion  for  work  and 
genuine  good  will  toward  all  his  pupils.  He  was 
what  many  wpuld  call  a  fussy  man,  ready  to  take 
sides  in  all  personal  quarrels,  a  hot  partisan  in 
politics,  and  perpetually  entangled  in  mild  love 
scrapes.  But  he  had  the  pedagogical  gift  beyond 
question,  and  was  at  bottom  a  true  man.  There 
was  a  streak  of  romance  in  his  life,  but  the  pathos 
of  grief  and  death  crowd  it  out  of  this  record. 

I  had  other  schooling  all  along,  of  course — the 
schooling  of  my  environment,  which  was  mixed 
and  peculiar.  Our  home  was  a  frequent  stopping 
place  for  the  Methodist  preachers.  When  farthest 
from  religion  in  his  daily  life,  my  father  never  lost 
his  respect  and  regard  for  the  Methodist  Church 
and  its  ministry.     Her  Church  life   was    for    my 


1 8  Sunset  Views. 

mother  the  golden  thread  that  ran  through  all  the 
tangled  web  of  her  life.  So  in  my  boyhood  I 
heard  (as  a  boy  hears)  the  sermons  of  such  pulpit 
giants  as  Peter  Doub,  James  Reid,  and  William 
Anderson ;  the  tremendous  exhortations  of  Father 
Dye;  the  seraphic  songs  of  Jehu  Hank.  I  was 
saturated  with  the  spirit  of  that  time  of  mighty  revi- 
vals, polemical  controversy,  and  sharp  hand-to-hand 
fighting  with  the  world,  theflesh,  and  the  devil.  And 
the  fighting  was  indeed  sharp.  The  whisky  distill- 
ery, the  cross-road  doggery,  the  cockfight,  the  horse 
race,  the  card  table,  were  all  around.  I  saw  and 
heard  much  that  I  would  be  glad  to  forget  forever. 
It  was  largely  a  duel  between  the  Methodist  Church 
and  the  whisky  devil  during  this  period.  When 
in  1866  my  father,  then  an  old  man,  told  me  that 
he  went  alone  once  every  day  to  pray  in  the  little 
Methodist  chapel  in  sight  of  his  home,  and  that 
he  had  found  peace  with  God,  and  was  waiting  for 
the  call  to  go  up  to  meet  my  mother,  I  thanked 
God  for  the  Methodist  Church  that  has  made  the 
desert  places  of  America  blossom  and  its  wilder- 
nesses to  rejoice. 

The  life  and  death  of  my  brother  William,  two 
years  older  than  myself,  was  a  graciously  educative 
influence  of  my  boyhood.  He  was  frail  in  his 
physical  constitution  from  the  start,  and  there  was 
something  about  him  that  seemed  to  indicate  that 
he  was  destined  for  another  and  higher  sphere  than 
earth.  He  was  never  known  to  utter  an  evil  word, 
or  to  show  a  wrong  temper,  or  to  strike  an  angry 
blow.  There  was  a  spiritual  beauty  about  him  that 
awed  and  attracted  both  the  old  and  the  young.  He 
died  in  his  teens,  lying  in  our  mother's  arms,  his 
face  shining  rapturously  as  he  said  with  upward 
look,  *'  Lift  me  higher !  "  That  death  and  the  life 
that  went  before  it  were  part  of  my  schooHng. 


A  SAD  NIGHT  RIDE. 


A  SAD  NIGHT  RIDE. 

I  WAS  a  sad-hearted  boy  that  winter  day  when 
I  left  home  to  go  out  into  the  wide  world  alone. 
My  mother's  hot  tears  fell  on  my  face  as  she 
gave  me  a  parting  kiss.  I  feel  it  all  as  I  write 
these  lines  to-day,  more  than  fifty  years  after- 
wards. I  was  under  fourteen  years  old.  The 
family  fortunes  had  sunk  to  a  point  where  it  be- 
came imperative  that  I  should  become  self-support- 
ing. From  that  day  to  this  I  have  fought  this  bat- 
tle. The  record  of  the  struggle  would  be  a  record 
of  my  gropings  in  the  dark  and  sinnings  in  the 
light  on  the  one  side,  and  of  the  patience  and 
mercy  of  my  God  on  the  other.  (That  last  sen- 
tence might  be  taken  as  an  epitome  of  my  whole 
life.)    Blessed  be  His  name  I 

My  destination  was  Lynchburg,  Virginia.  It 
was  twelve  miles  to  Danville,  where  ended  the  first 
stage  of  my  journey.  I  felt  like  one  in  a  dream 
as  the  four-horse  stage  wheeled  me  along.  The 
winter  sky  looked  cold,  and  there  was  a  heaviness 
'about  my  heart  and  a  lump  in  my  throat.  I  had 
no  appetite  for  the  hot  supper  set  before  me  at 
Williams's  Tavern.  When  a  boy  in  his  early  teens 
loses  his  appetite,  there  is  something  serious  in  the 
case.  x\t  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  was  roused 
and  told  that  the  stagecoach  was  waiting  for  me. 
That  ride !  It  seemed  a  long,  long  time  from  two 
o'clock  to  daybreak.  The  weather  was  very  cold, 
the  very  stars  glittering  coldly  in  the  sky,  the 
horses'  hoofs  making  lively  time  on  the  frozen 
roadbed.  The  jolting  of  the  stagecoach  and  the 
sadness  of   my  heart  kept  me  wide   awake   dur- 

(21) 


22  Sunset  Views. 

ing  the  long  hours.  The  sense  of  loneHness  was 
then  first  felt,  not  for  the  last  time.  There  are 
souls  that  feel  it  all  their  lives — orphaned  at  the 
the  start,  isolated  all  along.  To  such  heaven  will 
be  sweeter,  if  possible,  than  to  all  others — the 
heaven  where  the  family  of  God  shall  meet  and 
mingle  in  fellowship  unrestrained,  with  love  un- 
mixed and  unending.  Blessed  are  the  homesick 
who  shall  reach  that  home  I  I  was  too  heartsick 
to  realize  how  cold  it  was.  When  at  sunrise 
we  drove  up  to  the  tavern  at  Pittsylvania  Court- 
house, I  was  so  nearly  frozen  that  I  had  to 
be  lifted  out  of  the  stagecoach,  taken  into  the 
house,  and  set  by  the  big  log  fire  to  thaw.  The 
landlady  gave  me  a  kindly  look,  and  spoke  kindly 
words  that  touched  my  boy-heart.  But  I  thought  of 
the  home  I  had  left  on  the  other  side  of  Dan  River, 
and  again  there  was  a  lump  in  my  throat.  It  all 
comes  back — that  long  cold  night  ride,  the  all-day 
ride  that  followed,  and  the  heartache  that  never 
left  me  for  a  moment.  Over  the  hills  of  Pittsyl- 
vania and  Campbell  counties,  crossing  Staunton 
River,  which  then  looked  big  to  my  boyish  eyes, 
the  wintry  wind  whistling  through  the  forest  trees, 
the  smoke  curling  upward  from  mansions  or  cabins 
in  the  clearings,  the  Blue  Ridge  outlined  north- 
ward in  the  sky  that  looked  so  far  away  and  so 
cold — it  all  comes  back  with  a  rush  upon  my  memo- 
ry, my  first  day  alone  in  the  world.  There  was  a 
sort  of  semi-orphanage  in  my  consciousness  that 
day  that  has  given  me  sympathy  for  orphanage  all 
my  life.  And  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  Book  that 
tells  us  what  is  in  God's  heart  toward  his  creatures 
says  so  much  about  the  children  that  are  mother- 
less and  homeless.  The  heavenly  Father  may  not 
be  seen  by  the  natural  eye  in  the  order  of  the  nat- 
ural world,  but  the  throb  of  his  heart  is  felt  in  the 


A  Sad  Night  Ride.  23 

Word  that  tells  us  what  he  is  and  how  he  feels. 
The  heavenly  Father! — that  is  what  he  calls  him- 
self. Our  Father,  who  art  in  heaven,  thy  king- 
dom come  in  our  hearts,  in  our  lives,  in  our  world, 
is  the  prayer  that  rises  from  my  soul  in  penning 
the  closing  words  of  this  short  chapter!      Amen, 


HOW  METHODISM  KEPT  ITS  HOLD. 


HOW  METHODISM  KEPT  ITS  HOLD. 

IT  may  be  worth  while  for  me  to  pause  in  this 
straggling  narration,  and  tell  how  it  was  that 
Methodism  held  its  grasp  upon  me.  The  so- 
lution seems  to  be  very  simple:  Methodism 
went  everywhere  that  I  went.  There  was  al- 
ways within  my  hearing  a  Methodist  voice  that 
would  expose  the  sophistries  of  infidelity,  and  I 
was  never  beyond  the  sweep  of  a  revival  wave  that 
bore  me  back  toward  my  mother's  Church.  No 
matter  how  high  might  rise  the  tides  of  worldli- 
ness,  passion,  or  unbelief,  the  tides  of  spiritual  life 
in  Methodism  rose  higher  still.  The  Methodist 
idea  then  seemed  to  be  that  the  mission  of  the 
Church  was  to  save  sinners  in  a  sense  more  ex- 
pHcit  than  is  now  understood  by  many.  The  great 
revival  out  of  which  Methodism  was  born  was  still 
sweeping  over  the  land.  Through  Methodism  and 
other  evangelical  agencies  God  was  commanding 
all  men  everywhere  to  repent.  The  kingdom  of 
heaven  was  at  hand  in  a  sense  that  was  special. 
To  save  sinners,  not  to  build  up  the  Church,  was 
the  Methodistic  idea.  The  continent  shook  be- 
neath its  tread.  This  is  the  gospel  that  was 
needed.  The  Church  was  built  up,  of  course, 
wherever  souls  were  born  of  God  into  new  life 
under  her  ministry.  There  never  was  seen  any- 
where else  such  rapid  growth  in  Church  member- 
ship as  there  was  in  Methodism  in  the  flush  time 
of  its  revival  power.  Has  a  change  come  over  it? 
Is  a  change  desirable?  Is  a  change  to  be  ex- 
pected ?  No !  Let  us  have  no  radical  change  in 
our  convictions  as  to  what  are  the  true  functions 

(^7) 


28  Sunset  Views, 

of  the  Christian  Church.  Let  us  have  no  radical 
change  of  opinion  or  practice  as  to  what  is  the 
special  mission  of  Methodism.  Methodism  is  not 
a  sacerdotalism.  When  it  becomes  thus  mummi- 
fied, it  will  be  ready  for  its  shroud  of  formalism 
and  for  burial.  It  is  Christianity  in  earnest — in  the 
present  tense.  (Dr.  Chalmers  would  not  object  to 
the  added  clause,  even  if  it  does  seem  tautologous. ) 
Methodists  when  saved  become  soul-savers  in 
some  form  of  Christian  service.  All  are  to  be  at 
it,  and  always  at  it,  as  long  as  they  live  on  earth. 
To  build  up  the  Church  in  the  true  New^  Testa- 
ment sense  of  the  word  is  not  only  to  polish  its 
living  stones,  but  to  work  in  new^  material.  The 
saints  fall  on  sleep  every  generation,  and  others 
must  take  their  places  in  the  militant  Church. 
The  baptized  children  of  the  Church  come  to  the 
point  when  they  should  ratify  the  baptismal  cove- 
nant made  by  their  parents,  and  make  covenanted 
blessings  theirs  by  choice.  Shall  we  wait  for  a  re- 
vival to  take  them  into  full  fellowship  ?  Not  neces- 
sarily. But  the  right  sort  of  a  revival,  at  the  right 
time,  raises  a  gracious  tide  of  spiritual  power  that 
sweeps  them  over  the  bar  into  the  port — the  bar 
of  worldliness,  or  doubt,  or  indecision.  Thus  a 
large  percentage  of  our  membership  came  into  the 
Church;  how  large,  the  reader  may  be  astonished 
to  learn  if  he  will  make  inquiry.  And  for  back- 
sliders, the  periodical  revival  is  the  reopening  of 
the  gates  for  their  return  to  the  fold  they  have 
left. 

This  is  the  true  history  of  the  revival  in  Metho- 
dism, and  it  is  largely  the  same  in  other  evangeli- 
cal bodies.  It  is  not  a  question  of  theory,  but  of 
facts- -facts  all  pointing  to  the  same  conclusion, 
namely,  that  this  is  the  method  owned  and  blessed 
by  the  Holy  Spirit.     Its    development   among  us 


How  Methodis7n  Kept  Its  Hold.  29 

was  providential  beyond  question:  its  maintenance 
is  demanded  by  every  consideration  affecting  the 
salvation  of  men  and  the  glory  of  God.  All  that 
can  be  truly  said  as  to  false  methods  and  false  re- 
vivalists may  be  assented  to  freely  without  any  dis- 
count upon  the  value  of  genuine  revival  work.  Sa- 
tan never  fails  to  counterfeit  as  far  as  he  can  any 
good  work  he  cannot  stop.  The  lying  wonders  of 
Simon  Magus  counterfeited  the  gracious  miracles 
of  the  true  disciples  of  our  Lord.  This  short  chap- 
ter, which  came  in  of  itself,  so  to  speak,  as  a  re- 
flection on  a  personal  statement,  may  end  here  with 
this  remark:  The  time  may  come  when  Methodist 
and  other  evangelical  bodies  can  afford  to  dispense 
with  revivals,  truly  so  called;  but  the  child  is  not 
born  who  will  live  to  see  that  time. 


TAKING  SHAPE, 


M 


TAKING  SHAPE. 

Y  life  in  Lynchburg  began  at  the  age  when 
a  boy  grows  fastest  and  is  most  impress- 
ible. He  takes  shape  in  body  and  soul 
between  his  first  teens  and  early  man- 
hood. I  learned  to  set  type  in  the  print- 
ing office  of  the  Lynchbui'g  Rcfiiblican^  and  ac- 
quired a  taste  for  journalism  that  has  never  left 
me.  That  part  of  my  schooling,  in  the  order  of 
divine  providence,  was  destined  to  have  a  very  pos- 
itive influence  upon  all  my  after  life.  That  was  a 
time  of  intense  political  feeling  and  sharp  politi- 
cal debate.  It  was  also  a  period  during  which  re- 
ligious controversy  ran  high.  Political  discussion 
and  denominational  debates  were  carried  on  ear- 
nestly by  a  people  who  had  strong  convictions  and 
much  loquacit3\  The  Whigs  and  Democrats, 
nearly  balanced  in  numbers,  contended  for  politi- 
cal supremacy.  Virginia  was  always  at  the  front 
in  those  days;  every  voter  was  also  a  propagan- 
dist, and  every  youth  an  incipient  statesman,  at 
least  in  his  own  estimation.  My  naturalization  was 
rapid,  though  not  without  friction  and  tribulation. 
Lynchburg  boys  of  that  day  were  like  all  other 
boys  of  all  other  times  and  places.  They  were  of 
the  normal  type,  and  loved  to  wrestle,  box,  swim, 
and  shoot.  Being  a  new  boy,  I  had  to  run  the 
gantlet — that  is  to  say,  to  fight  every  boy  of  my 
own  age  and  size,  or  back  down  when  challenged. 
My  blood  and  my  home  teaching  did  not  incline 
me  to  nonresistance.  In  fact,  I  always  had  a  rel- 
ish for  fighting.  It  is  certain  that  I  had  all  the 
fighting  I  wanted.  The  names  of  Kirkwood  Otey, 
3  (33) 


34  Sunset  Views. 

Paul  Banks,  Henry  Orr,  Walter  Withers,  Beall 
Blackford,  Nick  Floyd,  and  others,  come  to  my 
mind — boys  with  whom  I  had  battles  that  were 
drawn  battles,  none  of  us  at  any  time  getting 
enough  drubbing  to  prevent  renewal  of  the  fight 
when  occasion  offered.  Those  Lynchburg  boys 
were  made  of  true  metal.  The  strength  of  the. 
hills  was  in  their  frames,  the  inspiration  of  a  glori- 
ous history  was  in  their  souls,  an  heroic  heredity 
was  in  their  blood.  They  fought  fairly,  and  never 
cherished  malice,  giving  and  taking  hard  knocks 
without  flinching.  In  the  '  *  war  between  the  states ' ' 
these  Lynchburg  boys  made  their  mark.  They 
marched  with  Stonewall  Jackson  through  the  Val- 
ley of  Virginia,  and  followed  Lee  in  his  wonder- 
ful campaigns.  Braver  soldiers  never  wore  uni- 
forms. 

The  Christian  religion  will,  in  its  final  triumph, 
bring  in  the  reign  of  universal  peace.  The  time  is 
coming  when  the  nations  shall  learn  war  no  more, 
when  swords  shall  be  turned  into  plowshares,  and 
spears  into  pruning  hooks.  Of  this  I  have  no 
doubt.  Not  only  does  the  word  of  God  promise 
it,  but  it  seems  to  me  patent  that  if  Christianity 
stopped  short  of  this  result  it  would  be  to  that  ex- 
tent a  failure.  In  the  happier  age  that  is  coming, 
war  will  be  looked  upon  as  a  horrible  feature  of 
a  darker  period  of  the  world's  history,  when  the 
evolution  of  God's  purpose  to  give  to  the  world 
knowledge,  truth,  freedom,  and  peace  through  the 
gospel  of  Jesus  Christ  was  in  its  earlier  and  incom- 
plete stages.  The  noncombatant  theories  were 
not  taught  me  in  my  boyhood,  and  the  world  had 
not  then  reached  the  promised  time  of  peace.  Cow- 
ardice was  held  to  be  a  sin  and  a  shame  among 
men  and  boys  everywhere.  The  whole  American 
nation  was  possessed  of  this  martial  spirit,  and  it 


Taking  Shafe,  35 

has  led  us  to  make  presidents  of  our  successful 
generals,  from  Washington  to  Taylor  and  Grant. 
I  fought  my  way  to  peace  among  the  Lynchburg 
boys . 

I  am  a  noncombatant  now  in  theory,  as  it 
seems  to  me  all  New  Testament  Christians  ought 
to  be.  But  it  would  perhaps  be  as  awkward  for  a 
nation  in  this  year  of  our  Lord  to  announce  and 
act  upon  noncombatant  principles  as  it  would 
have  been  for  a  Lynchburg  youth  among  his  com- 
panions a  half  century  ago.  Combativeness  has 
hitherto  been  invariably  a  constituent  element  of 
human  nature.  It  is  in  the  blood,  instincts,  and 
history  of  our  race.  Hero  worship  has  been  the 
universal  religion.  What  is  to  become  of  the 
combativeness  after  the  era  of  universal  peace  has 
dawned  ?  Will  it  disappear  ?  Or,  will  the  love  of 
conflict  find  legitimate  exercise  in  other  and  high- 
er fields  of  activit}^  ?  Progress  is  the  law  under 
which  the  world  moves  in  its  pathway  through  the 
ages — progress  by  conquest,  progress  by  over- 
coming obstacles  and  beating  down  opposing 
forces  of  whatever  kind.  To  him  that  overcom- 
eth  is  given  the  promise  to  eat  of  the  tree  of  life, 
and  of  the  hidden  manna;  and  to  him  will  be 
given  the  white  stone  in  which  the  New  Name  is 
written  which  is  known  only  to  its  recipient;  and 
to  him  will  be  given  power  over  the  nations.  But 
the  weapons  of  this  warfare  are  not  carnal.  The 
victory  that  overcometh  the  world  is  the  victory  of 
faith.  What  does  that  mean  to  the  reader?  The 
true  answer  would  reveal  his  status  and  trend. 


FORMATIVE  INFLUENCES. 


FORMATIVE  INFLUENCES. 

FORMATIVE  influences!  This  heading 
for  this  chapter  presents  a  riddle.  Who 
can  know  or  analyze  the  agencies  or  influ- 
ences which  have  made  him  what  he  is? 
During  the  years  of  my  stay  in  Lynchburg 
I  was  employed  first  in  the  newspaper  office,  and 
afterwards  in  a  bookstore,  and  last  of  all  as  a  post- 
office  clerk.  I  read  everything  I  could  lay  my 
hands  on — mostly  the  newspapers  of  the  day.  The 
party  press  of  both  sides  engaged  my  youthful 
mind,  and  I  became  an  expert  in  partisan  phrases 
and  catchwords,  if  not  an  adept  in  constitutional 
law  and  political  legislation.  I  adopted  opinions  at 
this  time  that  I  still  retain,  and  became  subject  to 
prejudices  and  partialities  that  will  be  buried  only 
in  my  grave.  In  the  selection  of  my  reading  I  had 
no  guide  save  my  own  whim  or  choice  or  the  limi- 
tations of  my  purse.  If  it  could  be  so,  I  would 
be  glad  even  at  this  late  day  to  blot  from  my  mind 
the  memory  of  some  things  I  read  during  this  pe- 
riod of  my  life :  bad  books  that  were  read  out  of 
mere  curiosity  and  thrown  aside  with  disgust. 
Curiosity !  How  many  young  persons  start  on 
the  paths  that  lead  to  hell  to  gratify  curiosity ! 
The  first  vicious  book,  the  first  step  in  any  of  the 
ways  that  take  hold  on  hell,  is  thus  taken  by  so 
many  that  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the  first  trans- 
gressor in  this  world's  tragic  history. 

In  the  choice  of  my  companions  I  exercised  the 
same  freedom,  having  no  guide  save  my  own  pref- 
erence or  the  relationships  naturally  springing  out 
of  my  environment.     If  any  reader  of  these  pages 

(39) 


40  Su7iset  Views. 

doubts  that  man  is  a  fallen  being,  and  that  the  trail 
of  the  serpent  of  sin  is  all  over  this  earth,  he  has 
had  a  different  experience  from  mine,  or  he  must 
draw  a  different  conclusion  from  the  same  facts. 
The  vileness  of  what  many  youths  call  *'fun"  ex- 
ceeds even  its  idiocy.  Respect  for  my  mother, 
and  a  voice  in  the  inner  soul  that  was  never  si- 
lenced, made  me  turn  away  from  profanity  or  ob- 
scenity if  I  could,  or  to  hear  it  with  disgust  if  I 
could  not  shut  it  out.  But  it  was  no  more  possi- 
ble for  a  boy  left  to  himself  to  escape  contact  with 
foulness  of  speech  than  with  foulness  of  the  print- 
ed page.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  I  heard  as 
well  as  read  much  that  it  is  painful  to  remember — 
the  pain  being  mixed  with  gratitude  to  God  for 
the  repulsion  that  was  always  felt  at  its  polluting 
touch.  Let  me  say  it  just  here:  Never  for  one 
moment  of  my  life  have  I  committed  any  sin,  or 
come  into  contact  with  sin  in  any  of  its  grosser 
forms,  without  feeling  such  a  repulsion  for  it  as  to 
prove  to  me  that  the  Holy  Spirit  has  never  left  me 
nor  ceased  to  move  upon  my  soul  since  I  crossed 
the  line  of  moral  accountability.  Reading  over 
that  last  sentence,  and  knowing  it  to  be  the  affirma- 
tion of  a  fact,  my  heart  is  lifted  in  silent  gratitude 
to  God  as  I  write  these  words.  I  would  close 
this  paragraph  with  a  word  of  advice  to  any  young 
person  who  may  read  what  I  say:  Be  simple  con- 
cerning evil.  Do  not  start  to  hell  from  curiosit3^ 
Ignorance  on  these  lines  is  pleasing  to  God  and 
honorable  to  yourself.  The  flippant  assumption  by 
young  people  of  a  knowledge  of  the  world  on  its 
dark  under  side  is  at  once  a  weakness  and  a  wick- 
edness— a  weakness  to  be  ashamed  of,  a  wicked- 
ness to  repent  of.  Avoid  alike  the  idiocy  of  such 
a  pretension  and  the  vileness  of  such  an  experi- 
ence, O  youthful  reader,  whoever  you  may  be. 


Formative  Injliiences.  41 

Two  men's  names  drop  from  my  pen  point  here 
while  I  am  speaking  of  the  formative  influences  of 
my  youth.  They  were  both  great  and  good  men, 
though  of  different  types.  The  one  was  Doctor 
WilHam  A.  Smith,  of  the  Virginia  Conference  of 
the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  South.  To  his 
owrf  generation  he  was  well  known — a  giant  in  de- 
bate, one  of  the  foremost  leaders  of  his  side  in  the 
struggle  that  ended  in  the  division  of  the  Church 
in  1844.  He  was  indeed  a  grand  man.  Lion-like 
in  port,  with  a  voice  to  match,  in  the  arena  he 
moved  as  a  conqueror.  There  was  a  limp  in  his 
gait  from  a  crippled  limb,  but  there  was  none  in 
his  logic.  In  debate,  when  sure  of  his  premises, 
he  was  irresistible.  His  awakening  sermons  were 
terrible.  Fortified  by  well-chosen  Scripture  texts, 
with  exegesis  and  deduction  clear  and  strong,  he 
showed  the  sinner  who  listened  to  him  that  he 
was  on  an  inclined  plane  sliding  down  hellward, 
and  that  repentance  or  ruin  was  to  be  chosen  then 
and  there.  He  was  as  simple  as  a  child,  knowing 
no  concealments  as  he  knew  no  fear.  He  believed 
in  Arminian  (or  Wesleyan)  theology  and  in  state- 
rights  politics.  He  trained  with  John  Wesley's 
followers  in  the  Church  and  with  John  C.  Calhoun's 
followers  in  the  State.  His  call  to  preach  must 
have  been  very  clear  and  strong:  nothing  short  of 
this  could  have  kept  him  out  of  party  politics.  In 
either  house  of  Congress  he  would  have  been  con- 
spicuous in  the  eyes  of  the  nation.  Whether  he 
was  ever  tempted  to  turn  aside  in  this  direction,  I 
know  not.  The  devil  has  a  way  of  taking  such 
men  up  into  a  high  mountain — the  mountain  of 
imagination — and  showing  and  promising  to  them 
the  kingdoms  of  this  world  and  the  glory  of  them. 
Such  as  have  listened  and  yielded  have  found  that 
he  is  a  liar  from  the  beginning.     The  preacher- 


42  Sunset  Views. 

politician,  as  a  rule,  is  a  failure  for  both  worlds. 
Tragedies  along  this  line  have  come  under  my  ob- 
servation that  are  sad  enough,  if  it  were  possible, 
to  excite  the  pity  of  the  arch  deceiver  himself. 
What  Doctor  Smith  saw  in  me  that  attracted  his 
notice  and  elicited  his  good  will,  I  cannot  tell;  but 
it  was  a  fortunate  circumstance  for  me  that  it, was 
so.  When  I  was  a  clerk  in  the  Lynchburg  post 
office,  he  would  come  inside  and  talk  with  me  for 
hours  at  a  time.  Rather,  he  would  talk  to  me.  He 
loved  a  good  listener,  such  as  I  must  have  been 
then.  Those  monologues  would  be  good  reading 
now  for  persons  who  think.  The  only  record  of 
them  extant  is  in  the  memory  of  the  boy  who  heard 
them  with  w^onder  and  delight.  Forgetting  that  he 
had  only  a  single  hearer — and  he  only  an  inquisi- 
tive youth — the  great  man  would  unfold  great 
schemes  of  thought,  and  argue  and  illustrate  them 
with  a  power  that  was  tremendous,  and  an  enthu- 
siasm that  was  charmingly  contagious.  The  friend- 
ship of  such  a  man  was  to  me  a  blessing  and  an  in- 
spiration. At  that  time  I  was  young,  and  impress- 
ible in  many  ways.  My  veneration  for  Doctor 
Smith  was  tinged  with  awe  because  of  a  story  that 
his  parsonage  was  "haunted"  at  night.  The 
story  was,  that  sound  of  the  rocking  of  an  invis- 
ible cradle  by  invisible  hands  went  on  night  after 
night  during  the  still  hours  when  the  family  were 
abed  and  the  world  asleep.  This  was  never  de- 
nied nor  explained.  The  supernatural  touch,  real 
or  fancied,  all  of  us  respond  to  in  our  earlier  years. 
It  answers  to  something  that  is  in  us  all — a  belief 
in  a  world  unseen. 

The  other  personality  that  comes  in  here  is  that 
of  Doctor  Robert  B.  Thomson,  of  the  Methodist 
Protestant  Church.  His  benignant  presence  seems 
almost  to  pervade  the  room  as  I  write  his  name. 


Formative  Influences .  43 

He  was  a  man  of  medium  size,  who  looked  larger 
than  he  was  under  the  afflatus  that  gave  him  the 
pulpit  transfiguration.  His  dark  eyes  glowed  with 
the  fires  of  thought.  About  him  there  was  the  in- 
definable magnetism  that  drew  the  hearts  of  the 
people,  old  and  young,  to  him.  He  was  eloquent 
in  the  truest  and  highest  sense  of  the  word.  He 
had  the  clairvoyance  that  springs  from  the  sympa- 
thy that  flows  out  of  a  great  heart  filled  with  the 
love  of  souls.  Doctor  Thomson  seemed  to  know 
my  needs  and  my  perils,  and  gave  me  touches  that 
have  influenced  me  to  this  hour.  The  worth  of 
such  a  man  to  a  community  cannot  be  measured 
this  side  of  the  final  judgment.  For  him  there  is 
in  my  heart  an  affection  that  is  almost  filial  in  its 
nature. 

During  all  this  time  I  lived  in  an  atmosphere 
sweetened  by  the  lives  of  holy  women  whom  I  met 
in  the  family  circle  and  in  the  places  of  religious 
worship.  Their  faces  shone  in  holy  beauty,  and 
their  songs  and  prayers  and  good  works  made 
what  is  divinest  in  human  character  audible,  visi- 
ble, and  tangible.  Four  of  these — Mrs.  Early, 
Mrs.  Otey,  Mrs.  Saunders,  and  Mrs.  Daniel — 
made  a  quartette  so  Christlike  that  unbelief  was 
abashed  in  their  presence,  and  all  that  was  holy 
and  beneficent  bloomed  within  the  spheres  of  their 
gentle  ministries. 

One  of  the  formative  influences  of  this  period  of 
my  life  is  mentioned  last  of  all,  though  not  the  least 
potent.  From  time  to  time  the  post  would  bring 
me  a  letter  from  my  mother,  breathing  mother-love 
and  telling  me  what  was  in  her  hope  and  prayers 
for  me.  Tear-stains  were  on  the  sheets,  and  my 
own  eyes  grew  misty  as  I  read  them.  Her  love 
held  me  fast,  and  inspiration  was  in  the  thought 
that  well-doing  on   my  part  would  give  her  joy. 


44  Sunset  Views. 

Her  prayer  touched  God,  and  God  touched  me. 
My  blessed  mother!  She  trod  the  paths  of  pain 
and  toil  and  heartache  and  self-sacrifice  through 
all  her  life.  I  was  too  blind  to  see  what  I  owed  to 
her  while  she  was  yet  living  her  life  of  service 
here  on  earth.  Like  too  many  others,  the  mother- 
love  with  its  self-abnegation  and  self-devotion — 
the  self-abnegation  that  denies  nothing  that  love 
demands,  and  the  self-devotion  that  gives  all  that 
love  can  give — I  took  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  now 
see  more  clearly  and  feel  more  deeply  what  I  owe 
to  my  mother.  May  I  here  express  the  hope  that 
some  day,  somewhere,  I  may  meet  her  and  tell  her 
the  love  and  gratitude  that  are  in  my  heart?  Some 
day,  somewhere? 


FOUR  OLD-TIME  REVIVALISTS. 


V. 


FOUR  OLD-TIME  REVIVALISTS. 

FIRST  in  my  memory  is  George  W.  Dye — 
Father  Dye  he  was  called  by  the  people — 
who  in  family  prayer  at  my  father's  house 
seemed  to  talk  with  God  as  friend  talks  to 
friend,  and  who  at  the  old  Sharon  camp 
ground  on  a  Sunday  morning,  as  it  seemed  to  my 
boyish  mind,  turned  loose  a  spiritual  cyclone  upon 
the  awe-stricken  multitude.  The  revivals  he  con- 
ducted were  of  such  a  character  that  no  one  who 
believed  at  all  in  a  supernatural  religion  could 
doubt  that  they  were  the  work  of  God.  Gam- 
blers, debauchees,  profane  swearers,  and  even 
drunkards,  were  powerfully  converted — to  use  a 
phrase  that  has  been  current  among  the  people 
called  Methodists.  The  expression  is  just  right: 
in  no  other  way  could  they  have  been  converted 
at  all.  Sin  is  a  powerful  enslaver:  Satan  is  a 
strong  tyrant,  holding  the  castle  of  the  human 
soul.  The  power  that  dislodges  him  must  be  still 
stronger.  The  gospel  of  Christ  is  the  power  of 
God  unto  salvation.  Power!  Those  old  circuit 
riders  had  it.  All  substitutes  for  it  are  worthless. 
The  more  machinery  you  have  without  power,  the 
more  worthless  is  any  organization.  Father  Dye 
types  a  class  not  yet  extinct. 

Another  one  that  comes  to  mind  was  George 
W.  Childs — the  most  ghostly-looking  man  I  ever 
saw.  His  frame  was  tall  and  thin,  his  step  noise- 
less, his  face  as  pale  as  death,  and  he  had  a  rapt, 
far-away  look  that  made  him  seem  to  be  not  of  the 
earth  earthy,  as  are  common  men.  It  was  easy  to 
believe  that  there  is  a  great  spirit-world  after  see- 

(47) 


48  Sunset  Views. 

ing  this  unworldly  old  circuit  rider.  The  s^.range 
power  that  attended  his  preaching  could  be  ac- 
counted for  in  no  other  way.  It  was  said  of  him 
that  he  had  lain  in  a  trance  three  days  and  nights, 
that  he  was  never  known  to  laugh  afterwards,  and 
that  he  was  never  heard  to  speak  of  it.  Whether 
or  not  like  Paul  he  saw  things  not  lawful  to  be  ut- 
tered— or  thought  he  saw  them — we  cannot  say. 
But  that  then  and  there  he  had  an  experience  of 
some  sort,  that  thenceforward  made  him  a  changed 
man,  is  beyond  doubt.  Boy  as  I  was,  I  was  strange- 
ly thrilled  and  awed  in  the  presence  of  this  man  of 
God — for  such  he  was.  His  very  looks  refuted 
materialism. 

The  influence  of  William  M.  Crumley  (men- 
tioned elsewhere  in  these  pages)  has  never  left 
me  since  I  last  saw  him  in  1866.  In  the  pulpit  he 
too  had  that  strange  power  that  no  one  was  ever 
able  to  analyze  or  explain.  He  was  not  eloquent 
in  any  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  His  sermons 
were  the  most  informal  talks,  in  a  subdued  con- 
versational tone;  and  yet  it  was  no  unusual  occur- 
rence for  the  crowded  congregations  that  attended 
his  ministry  to  be  wrought  up  to  the  point  of  im- 
mediate surrender  to  Christ.  In  his  own  way  he 
made  a  "  still  hunt"  among  his  parishioners  that 
found  them  all.  No  member  of  his  flock  was  left 
unfed.  He  was  a  revivalist  everywhere — he  was 
himself  a  revival  incarnated.  I  never  heard  him 
speak  in  a  loud  voice.  I  never  heard  him  make 
an  appeal  to  the  emotions  that  was  not  also  an  ap- 
peal to  the  conscience.  That  I  had  even  a  short 
season  of  pastoral  training  with  such  a  man  is  a 
fact  for  which  I  have  never  ceased  to  be  grateful. 
He  was  a  man  of  God :  that  solves  the  secret  of  his 
success. 

A  very  different  sort  of  man  was  Leonidas  Ros- 


Four  Old-thne  Revivalists.  49 

ser,  but  he  too  was  a  revivalist  whose  power  was  the 
wonder  of  his  brethren.  He  was  by  no  means  a 
quiet  man  anywhere  or  any  time  when  tiwake.  It 
is  Hkely  that  even  his  dreams  had  a  dramatic  and 
pictorial  quality.  He  was  criticised,  smiled  at, 
and  followed  up  and  listened  to  by  multitudes. 
Many  were  converted  under  his  ministry.  If 
there  could  be  such  a  being  as  a  sanctified  dandy, 
he  was  one.  The  fit  of  his  clothes,  the  pose  of  his 
body,  the  seemingl}-  self-conscious  look  that  never 
left  him  for  a  moment,  the  dramatic  recital  of  in- 
cidents in  which  he  himself  was  an  actor,  could 
not  fail  to  elicit  remark,  especially  in  ministerial 
circles.  (Note:  Ministers  in  their  proneness  to 
criticise  one  another  are  not  worse  than  other 
men.)  But  what  was  the  secret  of  Rosser's 
power?  It  was  the  genuine  earnestness  of  the 
man.  He  knew  that  the  gospel  he  preached  was 
the  power  of  God  unto  salvation.  His  ineradica- 
ble Rosserisms  were  on  the  surface :  deeper  with- 
in his  soul  was  the  burning  love  for  souls  that 
somehow  melts  the  hearts  of  the  hardest  sinners. 
He  had  a  faith  so  mighty  that  all  sorts  of  peo- 
ple, saints  and  sinners  alike,  caught  its  contagion. 
The  individuality  of  the  man  was  not  lost,  but  the 
excellency  of  the  power  was  of  God.  The  quali- 
ty of  his  ministry  was  attested  by  its  fruits.  He 
was  a  man  of  God,  not  without  human  infirmity — 
where  is  the  man  who  is  not? — whose  natural  gifts 
as  a  speaker  and  charms  of  personality  were  sup- 
plemented by  that  one  element  that  differentiates 
human  eloquence  from  apostolic  power. 

Here  is  another  revivalist,  presenting  a  contrast 
to  Rosser  in  every  particular  save  one:  John  Forbes, 
a  local  preacher,  who  during  many  years  was  as 
a  flame  of  fire  over  the  Dan  River  region  in  Vir- 
ginia and  North  Carolina.  He  was  a  man  of  the 
4 


50 


Sunset  Views, 


people;  poor  as  to  this  world's  goods;  without 
book  learning,  except  that  found  in  the  one  Book 
of  books ;  living  in  a  cabin  that  could  not  be  called 
a  cottage  without  a  verbal  strain;  a  tall,  gangling, 
ungainly,  genial,  free-and-easy  sort  of  rural  apostle. 
He  was  as  guileless  as  a  child,  andf  eared  not  the  face 
of  man.  The  common  people  heard  him  gladly, 
while  the  more  cultured  listened  to  him  with  won- 
der. His  sermons  presented  two  points :  the  te^r- 
rors  of  the  law,  and  the  freeness  and  fullness  of 
gospel  grace.  "The  wages  of  sin  is  death,  but 
the  gift  of  God  is  eternal  life  through  Jesus  Christ 
our  Lord" — that  was  his  message;  he  had  no 
other.  It  was  God's  own  message,  and  it  had 
God's  own  attestation.  According  to  the  prom- 
ise, it  killed  and  made  alive.  Critics  were  dis- 
armed, scoffers  were  silenced,  quibblers  were  con- 
founded, cavilers  were  convinced.  If  it  was  not 
the  power  of  God,  what  was  it  that  wrought  so 
mightily  by  the  ministry  of  this  large-boned, 
large-featured,  unlearned,  simple-hearted,  farmer- 
preacher?  Because  of  his  plainness  of  speech  on 
one  occasion  some  lewd  fellows  of  the  baser  sort 
threatened  to  give  him  a  beating  if  he  ever  dared 
to  hold  another  meeting  in  their  neighborhood. 
Their  threat  did  not  frighten  Forbes,  w^ho  soon  af- 
terwards began  a  special  protracted  service  among 
them .  The  threat  of  the  offended  parties  had  been 
given  wide  publicity,  and  a  vast  congregation  as- 
sembled, many  of  them  drawn  by  the  expectation 
of  a  row.  The  old  preacher  opened  the  service 
with  the  usual  exercises,  and  then  announced  a 
text  embodying  his  one  pulpit  topic — the  certainty 
that  unrepented  sin  would  be  punished,  and  that 
God  was  ready  to  bless  and  save  all  who  would 
truly  repent  of  their  sins.  Toward  the  close  of 
the  sermon,  in  describing  the  security  of  the  faith- 


Four  Old-time  Revivalists.  51 

ful  and  their  final  coronation,  he  "  got  happy,"  as 
the  plain  country  people  expressed  it — that  is  to 
say,  his  soul  was  flooded  with  the  joy  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  '*  Where  are  those  fellows  who  came  here 
to-day  to  whip  me  ?"  he  asked.  *' Why,  He  would 
not  let  a  thousand  such  harm  me.  Where  are 
they?"  he  repeated;  and  as  he  spoke,  with  his  eyes 
shut  and  his  rugged  face  shining,  he  left  the  preach- 
ing stand  and  made  his  way  up  and  down  the 
aisles,  exhorting  as  he  moved.  "My  God,"  he 
exclaimed,  ''wouldn't  let  fifty  thousand  sinners 
whip  me  to-day  ! — but  boys,"  he  continued  witha 
sudden  overflow  of  tenderness,  "he  is  able  to  for- 
give and  save  you  all  this  day,"  placing  his  hand 
upon  the  head  of  one  of  the  opposing  party  as  he 
spoke.  The  effect  was  indescribable.  A  mighty 
wave  of  feeling  swept  over  the  entire  assembly 
amid  songs  and  shoutings  on  the  part  of  be- 
lievers, with  tears  and  sobbings  among  the  un- 
converted. The  preacher  got  no  whipping  that 
day.  The  meeting  was  kept  up.  Among  its  con- 
verts were  most  of  the  hostile  gang  who  had  come 
to  whip  the  preacher. 

When  the  old  man  died  he  did  not  own  enough 
of  this  world's  goods  to  buy  a  burial  lot,  but  his 
name  is  as  ointment  poured  forth  in  all  that  Dan 
River  region,  where  on  both  sides  of  the  state  line 
so  many  of  the  holy  dead,  whose  images  rise  be- 
fore my  mental  vision  as  I  write,  are  sleeping  in 
Jesus,  awaiting  the  morning  of  the  resurrection. 

*'  The  treasure  is  in  earthen  vessels,  that  the  ex- 
cellency of  the  power  might  be  seen  to  be  of  God, 
and  not  of  men." 


A  UNIQUE  PEDAGOGICAL  EXPERIENCE. 


A  UNIQUE  PEDAGOGICAL  EXPERIENCE. 

THAT  was  a  curious  sort  of  school  that  I 
taught.  The  teacher,  his  methods,  and  his 
classes  were  all  unique.  I  look  back  upon 
this  episode  in  my  life  with  amused  sur- 
prise— if  that  is  a  good  phrase  with  the 
right  meaning.  My  father,  animated  by  patriot- 
ism and  zeal  for  the  war  party  to  which  he  be- 
longed, had  gone  as  a  soldier  to  the  Mexican  war, 
in  which  he  did  his  duty,  was  crippled  for  life, 
came  back  alive,  and  drew  a  pension  from  the 
government  with  patriotic  punctuality  to  the  end  of 
his  life.  During  his  absence  I  lived  at  home  with 
my  mother.  The  neighbors,  who  always  over- 
rated my  learning,  requested  me  to  open  a  school 
for  their  children,  and  I  did  so.  I  had  about  sixt}^ 
pupils,  ranging  from  the  alphabet  up  as  high  as  I 
could  go.  Classification  was  after  a  system — no, 
a  method — of  my  own:  system  was  not  in  it 
Some  of  the  older  pupils  had  formerly  been  my 
schoolmates ;  and  if  they  did  not  know  more  than 
I  did,  it  must  surely  have  been  their  own  fault. 
We  all  did  pretty  much  as  we  pleased,  and  had  a 
good  time.  The  government  of  the  school  was 
mild,  but  mixed.  The  use  of  the  rod  was  then 
still  in  fashion,  but  I  did  not  use  it  often.  The 
switches  that  were  kept  in  sight  behind  my  desk 
were  placed  there  mainly  to  satisfy  the  expectation 
of  my  patrons,  and  for  moral  effect.  One  bow- 
legged  boy — still  living  at  this  writing — at  the  end 
of  six 'months  had  failed  to  master  the  alphabet 
under  my  instruction.  There  were  other  pupils 
who  knew  more  than  their  teacher,  especially  in 

(55) 


^6  Sunset  Views. 

mathematics,  in  which  he  was  never  strong: 
these  were  kept  busy  in  other  studies  in  which 
he  was  more  advanced.  The  good  will  of  all  con- 
cerned supplemented  my  shortcomings. 

Some  of  my  old  pupils  are  still  living.  When  now 
and  then  I  meetwith  one  of  them,  the  greetingon  both 
sides  is  hearty.  Few  of  them  are  left.  When  we  meet 
in  the  spirit-world,  there  will  be  a  look  of  inquisi- 
tiveness  in  our  eyes:  the  inquiry  will  then  come 
up,  What  did  we  do  for  each  other  back  there  at 
that  old-time  school  in  those  old  days  ?  Not  much 
was  done,  but  something.  My  pupils  got  the  best 
that  was  in  me  then;  and  the  fact  that  I  was  their 
teacher  and  exemplar  made  my  best  better  than  it 
would  otherwise  have  been.  That  is  the  way  God 
educates  us.  Tests  come  to  us  that  reveal  to  us 
our  ignorance  and  weakness.  Responsibility  comes 
to  us  to  steady  and  strengthen  us.  If  you  would 
teach  a  boy  to  swim,  throw  him  into  deep  water. 
The  youth  who  is  petted  and  praised  and  coddled 
at  home  until  he  thinks  it  a  great  feat  to  rise  and 
dress  himself  for  breakfast,  and  believes  that  the 
chief  functions  of  young  manhood  are  to  excite  the 
admiration  of  one  sex  and  the  envy  of  another, 
thrown  on  his  own  resources  develops  a  latent  man- 
hood that  astonishes  himself  and  all  who  know  him. 
Necessity  is  the  mother  of  manhood  in  action. 
Many  men  have  saved  their  boys  by  losing  their 
money.  Just  as  many  have  ruined  their  boys  by 
making  money  for  them  without  training  them  for 
its  use.  At  times  I  have  been  tempted  to  harbor 
in  my  soul  a  complaint  that  the  fortunes  of  the 
family  to  which  I  belonged  went  down  in  my  youth 
to  a  point  so  low  that  I  lost  the  advantages  and  op- 
portunities of  other  youths  of  my  own  age .  But  per- 
haps oftener  I  have  thanked  God  that  by  my  pov- 
erty I  escaped  in  some  measure  the  perils  that  were 


A  Unique  Pedagogical  Experience,  57 

fatal  to  so  many  of  them.  It  might  have  been  that 
with  a  better  mental  training  and  a  broader  culture 
my  life  would  have  been  larger  and  more  fruitful 
of  good.  Or,  it  might  have  been  that  with  the  freer 
use  of  money,  giving  me  access  to  indulgences  out 
of  my  reach,  with  the  lack  of  the  spur  of  neces- 
sity to  labor,  I  might  have  been  one  of  that  great 
army  of  young  men  of  my  country  who  were  vic- 
tims of  plenty — slaughtered  by  the  vices  that  lie  in 
wait  for  youth  when  it  is  idle  and  full  of  passion. 
Adversity  is  a  good  mother.  Prosperity  is  a  de- 
ceiver to  many. 

The  pupil  that  got  most  good  out  of  that  unique 
school  was  myself.  My  knowledge  of  some  of  the 
branches  taught  was  increased,  and  the  dignity 
of  pedagogy,  while  it  did  not  sit  easy  on  a  youth 
of  my  temperament,  was  a  good  thing  for  me 
to  feel  or  to  assume.  The  country  schoolmas- 
ter has  been  described  by  Washington  Irving  and 
many  others.  There  were  some  among  the  rural 
pedagogues  who  had  scholarship,  discipline,  and 
moral  force,  but  there  were  many  others  no  better 
qualified  for  the  work  of  education  than  I  was.  It 
was  not  time  wasted  after  all.  Those  big  barefoot 
boys  and  rosy,  laughing  country  girls  learned  a 
little,  and  I  learned  a  lesson  that  has  been  relearned 
by  me  many  times  since — namely,  that  all  I  did  not 
know  would  make  a  very  big  book.  The  attempt 
to  teach  something  that  you  think  you  know  will 
give  you  a  clear  perception  of  the  difference  be- 
tween vague  notions  and  true  knowledge.  If  a 
term  of  teaching,  long  or  short,  could  be  included 
in  every  post-graduate  course,  there  would  be  fewer 
failures  by  men  who  sport  degrees.  If  there  is  any 
wisdom  in  this  suggestion,  and  if  any  will  act  on 
it,  let  it  be  put  to  my  credit. 

All  this  time  the  Methodist  Church  kept  its  arms 


58  Sunset  Views. 

around  me,  never  withdrawing  them  for  a  moment. 
I  heard  the  preaching  of  its  preachers,  I  read  the 
Christian  Advocate  and  such  miscellaneous  Meth- 
odist reading  as  was  then  current  in  country  dis- 
tricts. The  ubiquitousness  of  the  itinerant  system 
was  illustrated  in  the  fact  that  in  town  or  country, 
at  home  or  on  my  travels,  I  have  never  for  one  day 
of  my  life  been  beyond  the  reach  of  the  wide- 
reaching  arms  of  that  branch  of  the  Church  of 
Christ  called  Methodism. 


IN  RICHMOND  IN  THE  FORTIES. 


IN  RICHMOND  IN  THE  FORTIES. 

AT  the  close  of  the  war  with  Mexico  I  went 
to  Richmond,  Virginia,  and  there  abode 
for  some  time.  Richmond  was  then  noted 
for  big  Whig  majorities,  plucky  Demo- 
crats, abundant  Baptists  of  all  shades  of 
color,  lively  Methodists,  fine-toned,  middle-of-the- 
road  Episcopalians,  and  Presbyterians  who  knew 
their  catechisms  and  walked  with  God.  The 
Whig  and  the  Enquirer  had  for  many  years  kept 
up  a  political  duel  of  national  notoriety  and  influ- 
ence. They  furnished  ammunition  and  w^atch- 
words  for  the  partisans  of  Henry  Clay  and  Andrew 
Jackson  over  all  the  land.  There  was  a  touch  of 
chivalry  in  their  fighting  that  was  admirable,  but 
it  did  not  suffice  to  avert  a  tragedy  that  made  good 
men  of  all  parties  mourn.  The  duello  was  even 
then  an  anachronism:  grown  men  playing  Ivanhoe 
after  Ivanhoe  and  his  like  were  dead  and  buried. 
By  virtue  of  the  ability  of  its  party  organs,  the 
zeal  of  the  local  following,  and  the  traditions  of 
the  past,  Richmond  was  then  virtually  the  political 
capital  of  the  Union.  The  place  was  always  in  a 
political  whirl.  The  women  did  not  think  of  vot- 
ing and  holding  office,  but  every  one  of  them  who 
was  not  busy  in  Church  work  w^as  in  some  way 
active  in  politics.  Some  were  busy  both  for  the 
Church  and  the  party  they  loved.  The  Baptists 
had  great  swing  with  the  negroes  in  Richmond  at 
that  time — and  have  not  lost  it  yet. 

The  African  Baptist  Church  was  a  wonder  to 
visitors  from  the  North  and  from  the  old  world 
who  came  to  Richmond  with  the  notion  in  their 

(6,) 


62  Sunset  Views, 

heads  that  negro  slavery  was  indeed  the  sum  of 
all  villainies,  and  that  a  slaveholding  community 
was  divided  into  only  two  parts — brutalized  black 
slaves  and  cruel  white  owners.  For  the  thou- 
sandth time  I  repeat  here  that  I  am  glad  that  slav- 
ery is  gone.  It  had  to  go.  It  had  its  day,  and  it 
had  done  its  work.  But  let  me  say,  what  has 
been  better  said  by  wiser  men,  that  the  roots  of 
all  that  is  most  hopeful  in  the  present  condition 
and  prospects  of  the  African  race  in  these  United 
States  of  America,  and  in  all  the  world,  including 
Africa,  are  to  be  found  in  the  work  that  was  done 
for  them  by  the  evangelical  Churches  in  the  South 
before  the  abolition  of  slavery.  The  Baptists  and 
the  Methodists  led  in  this  good  work  for  the  negro 
race.  On  the  one  side,  immersion  appealed  to  the 
love  of  the  spectacular  that  is  in  them.  Freedom 
of  speech  and  in  song  appealed  to  a  race  that  is  full 
of  eloquence  and  full  of  music,  on  the  other.  It 
has  been  a  close  race.  That  God  may  still  bless 
both  sides,  and  the  final  victor  be  made  to  do  his 
very  best  to  win,  is  a  prayer  in  which  all  good  Meth- 
odists and  Baptists  may  join.  The  gospel  of  Christ 
will  solve  the  negro  problem,  and  all  other  prob- 
lems, in  its  own  good  time  and  in  its  own  best  way. 
The  two  preachers  I  heard  oftenest  in  Richmond 
were  Doctor  David  S.  Doggett,  Methodist,  and 
Doctor  T.  V.  Moore,  Presbyterian.  They  were 
pulpit  princes  of  the  first  rank.  The  descrip- 
tives  that  would  put  Doggett  before  the  reader 
would  be:  lucidity,  elegance,  vigor,  unction — 
with  emphasis  on  the  last  word.  He  drew  and 
delighted,  edified  and  held  admiring  crowds.  His 
pulpit  power  made  him  a  bishop  and  sustained 
him  in  the  office.  He  was  a  light  that  burned  and 
shined.  In  administrative  genius  and  parlimen- 
tary  tact  he  was  not  notable :  in  the  pulpit  he  did 


Ill  Richmond  in  the  Forties.  63 

a  work  and  made  a  name  the  Church  will  not  let 
die.  In  an  enumeration  of  the  ten  foremost  preach- 
ers of  American  Methodism,  the  name  of  David 
S.  Doggett  could  not  be  omitted.  About  Doc- 
tor Moore  there  was  a  charm  that  everybody  felt 
but  none  could  fully  define.  He  was  a  tall,  spare- 
built  man,  with  a  face  that  was  pale  and  scholarly 
yet  strong,  with  a  resonance  in  his  voice  that 
pleased  the  ear  while  he  reasoned  of  heavenly 
things  and  persuaded  sinners  to  be  reconciled  to 
God.  He  read  his  sermons,  but  he  read  them  in 
such  a  way  as  to  make  the  hearer  feel  that  he  was 
listening  to  a  confidential  letter  that  the  preacher 
had  studied  out  and  prayed  over  for  his  special 
benefit.  He  being  dead,  yet  speaketh.  And  in  the 
Richmond  pulpit  of  that  day  stood  Anthony  Dib- 
rell — a  tall,  dark  man,  with  the  port  of  a  prophet 
of  the  Lord,  from  whose  sermons  flashed  the  light- 
nings of  Sinai  and  the  glory  of  the  cross.  By  ev- 
ery token,  he  was  a  man  of  God.  There  was  also 
Doctor  Leonidas  Rosser,  a  mighty  revivalist  in  his 
day — a  man  with  the  fervor  and  almost  the  elo- 
quence of  a  Whitefield.  His  hortatory  power  was 
extraordinary.  He  touched  his  word-pictures  with 
the  strongest  colors :  he  was  a  master  of  the  adjec- 
tive in  the  pulpit,  if  ever  a  man  was.  Great  congre- 
gations were  moved  under  his  preaching,  and  whole 
communities  were  swept  into  the  current  of  the 
revivals  that  attended  his  ministry.  There  was 
Doctor  John  E.  Edwards,  a  declamatory  whirlwind 
set  to  music — a  man  of  small  stature  physically, 
firmly  set,  with  a  large,  well-shaped  head,  blond- 
ish  hair  and  skin,  bright  deep-blue  eyes  that 
flashed  or  melted  as  he  spoke,  and  a  voice  as  clear 
as  a  silver  trumpet,  and  enunciation  the  most 
rapid  of  any  man  I  ever  heard.  A  distinguished 
American  statesman,    after   hearing   him  preach, 


64  Sunset  Views. 

said :  "There  are  two  great  declaimers  in  the  Unit- 
ed States — Rufus  Choate  and  John  E.  Edwards — 
and  the  greater  of  the  two  is  Edwards."  Then 
there  was  Doctor  Leroy  M.  Lee,  who  was  the 
editor  of  the  RicJmiond  Christian  Advocate,  then 
in  the  prime  of  his  powers — a  man  who  was  ready 
for  a  tilt  with  any  and  all  persons  opposed  to  Ar- 
minian  theology  and  Methodist  polity.  He  was  a 
man  of  convictions,  and  fed  his  readers  and  hear- 
ers on  strong  meat.  It  was  a  sturdy  sort  of  Metho- 
dists that  were  reared  in  the  families  that  took  and 
read  his  paper.  They  could  give  a  reason  for  the 
faith  that  was  in  them.  In  the  pulpit  he  was  in- 
clined to  polemics  and  pugnacity,  but  could  and 
did  often  preach  a  gospel  that  was  tender  and 
sweet  and  joyful — because  the  old  editor  had  felt 
its  tenderness,  its  sweetness,  and  its  joy.  Doctor 
Lee  had  in  his  physiognomy  and  in  his  character 
some  of  the  features  that  belonged  to  that  other 
Lee  of  Virginia  who  led  in  the  field  the  armies  of 
the  Confederate  States  of  America.  These  men 
were  my  tutors  while  I  was  still  in  a  special  sense 
in  the  formative  period  of  my  life.  There  are  oth- 
ers whose  names  come  to  my  mind,  but  I  forbear. 
Their  influence  I  thankfully  acknowledge,  and  will 
never  lose. 

Among  the  men  I  then  met  in  Richmond  was 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.  I  have  a  very  vivid  impression 
of  him  as  he  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him  on  a 
warm  day  in  1849.  Clad  in  a  spotless  white  linen 
suit,  with  a  black  velvet  vest,  and  Panama  hat,  he 
was  a  man  who  would  be  notable  in  any  company. 
I  met  him  in  the  office  of  the  Examiner,  the  new 
Democratic  newspaper  which  was  making  its 
mark  in  political  journalism.  It  was  ultra  state 
rights  in  tone.  John  M.  Daniel,  its  editor  in 
chief,  put  into  his  editorials  a  caustic  wit,  a  free- 


/;/  Richni07id  in  the  Forties.  65 

dom  in  the  use  of  personalities,  and  a  brilliant 
rhetoric  that  won  immediate  success.  Even  the 
victims  of  his  satire  must  have  admired  the  keen- 
ness of  his  weapon  and  the  skill  of  his  thrust.  There 
was  a  natural  affinity  between  Poe  and  Daniel.  Ar- 
rangements were  made  by  which  the  scope  of  the 
Exaininer  was  to  be  enlarged,  and  Poe  to  become 
its  literary  editor.  Through  the  good  offices  of  cer- 
tain parties  well  known  in  Richmond,  Poe  had 
taken  a  pledge  of  total  abstinence  from  all  intox- 
icating drinks.  His  sad  face — it  was  one  of  the 
saddest  faces  I  ever  saw — seemed  to  brighten  a  lit- 
tle, as  a  new  purpose  and  fresh  hope  sprang  up  in 
his  heart.  The  Richmond  people  did  a  thing  for  him 
in  away  that  had  the  old  Virginia  touch.  He  was 
invited  to  deliver  a  lecture ;  the  price  of  admission 
was  fixed  at  five  dollars  a  ticket,  and  three  hun- 
dred persons  were  packed  into  the  assembly  rooms 
of  the  old  Exchange  Hotel  at  that  price.  The  re- 
markable essay  on*' The  Poetic  Principle,"  found 
in  his  prose  works,  was  composed  for  that  occasion. 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  it  read,  and  remember 
how  forcibly  I  was  struck  with  his  tone  and  manner 
of  delivery.  The  emphasis  that  he  placed  upon  the 
dictum  that  the  sole  function  of  art  was  to  ministet 
to  the  love  of  the  beautiful  was  especially  notable. 
With  the  $1,500,  the  proceeds  of  the  lecture,  in 
hand,  he  started  to  New  York  for  the  purpose  of 
settling  up  his  affairs  there,  preparatory  to  enter- 
ing upon  his  work  on  the  Examiner  in  Richmond. 
The  tragic  sequel  is  well  known.  Stopping  in 
Baltimore  en  roiite^  he  attended  a  birthday  party 
to  which  he  had  been  invited.  The  fair  hostess 
pledged  him  in  a  glass  of  wine;  he  sipped  it  de- 
spite his  pledge ;  that  sip  was  as  a  spark  of  fire  to 
a  powder  magazine.  A  few  days  afterwards  he  lay 
dead  in  a  hospital,  where  he  died  of  mania  a  pottc, 
5 


66  Smiset  Views. 

He  had  the  sensitive  organization  of  a  man  of  gen- 
ius, and  for  him  there  was  no  middle  ground  be- 
tween total  abstinence  and  drunkenness.  The 
thought  will  press  upon  the  mind:  Who  can  esti- 
mate the  loss  to  American  literature  by  this  un- 
timely death  ?  During  the  two  tremendous  decades 
from  1850  to  1870  what  might  he  not  have  achieved 
on  the  lines  of  his  special  endowment?  The  sud- 
den quenching  of  such  a  light  in  such  a  way  is  a 
tragedy  too  deep  for  words.  It  was  the  work  of 
the  alcoholic  devil — the  devil  that  some  young 
man  who  has  genius,  or  thinks  he  has  it,  may  be 
hugging  to  his  bosom  as  he  reads  this  page.  God 
pity  such  folly !  Is  it  not  time  that  this  devil  were 
chained  in  a  Christian  land?  And  should  not  ev- 
ery good  man  and  woman  help  in  doing  it?  I  am 
not  sorry  that  I  took  an  humble  part  in  the  effort  to 
save  Edgar  Allan  Poe  from  the  doom  that  overtook 
him.  [A  different  and  more  favorable  account  has 
been  given  of  Poe's  death  by  a  recent  writer  of 
respectability  and  evidently  good  spirit.  The  ac- 
count given  by  me  is  that  which  was  current  at  the 
time.] 

Thus  my  schooling,  such  as  it  was,  went  on  in 
Richmond — taking  in  religion,  politics,  literature, 
and  whatever  else  was  going  on  at  the  time.  It 
was  a  taste  of  many  dishes  that  had  a  keen  relish 
for  a  youth  who  loved  to  read  and  was  a  student 
of  human  nature  in  his  own  way.  I  was  pulled 
this  way  and  that  by  opposing  forces  and  conflict- 
ing ideas;  but  by  the  grace  of  God  Methodism 
had  the  strongest  hold  on  me,  and  kept  it. 


AFLOAT. 


AFLOAT. 

THE  word  that  makes  the  heading  of  this 
chapter  describes  the  state  of  my  mind  and 
the  manner  of  my  hfe  for  some  years  just 
before  and  after  I  had  reached  twenty-one 
years  of  age.  I  was  afloat.  My  inherited 
behefs  were  under  review.  Every  young  man 
who  thinks  at  all  comes  to  this  point.  I  read  ev- 
erything that  came  within  my  reach.  I  talked  with 
all  sorts  of  people  on  all  sorts  of  subjects.  Among 
these  subjects  was  Swedenborgianism.  Having 
heard  that  John  C.  Calhoun  was  a  disciple  of  that 
wonderful  Swede,  Emanuel  Swedenborg — seer, 
madman,  enthusiast,  as  you  like — I  felt  a  desire  to 
know  more  of  the  man  and  his  system.  After 
reading  his  "Arcana  Celestia,"  the  treatise  on 
*'  Heaven  and  Hell,"  and  his  other  works,  I  reached 
the  conclusion  that  Swedenborg  had  as  clear  a 
view  of  some  phases  of  religious  truth  as  any  other 
uninspired  man;  that  much  learning  and  thinking 
made  him  mad ;  and  that  at  length  he  mistook  the 
dreams  and  vagaries  of  an  overwrought  mind  for 
divine  revelations.  I  am  glad  that  I  read  Sweden- 
borg's  works,  and  feel  assured  that  they  left  a  d'e- 
posit  with  me  of  profitable  suggestion  that  I  will 
never  lose.  He  was  a  visionary,  a  man  to  be  classed 
with  dreamers  and  theorizers  rather  than  with  the 
few  elect  spirits  who  have  been  the  real  religious  lead- 
ers of  the  world.  The  first  notable  Swedenborgian 
I  ever  met  was  Richard  K.  Cralle,  of  Lynchburg, 
Virginia — a  man  whose  brain  was  as  massive  and 
as  angular  as  the  unique  dwelling  built  by  him  on 
one  of  the  many  hills  of  that  hilly  city  on  the  spark- 

(69) 


70  Sunset  Views. 

ling,  swift-flowing  James.  This  house  was  called 
*'The  Castle."  It  was  built  of  stone,  turreted, 
many-windowed,  with  corridors  winding  in  and  out, 
like  a  fortress  of  the  middle  ages,  with  a  weird, 
ghostly  effect  that  gave  rise  to  a  belief  among  the 
colored  people  and  others  that  it  was  ''haunted." 
I  had  heard  Mr.  Cralle  read  some  of  Mr.  Cal- 
houn's letters  to  him,  in  which  his  religious  be- 
Jiefs  were  expressed  with  the  freedom  of  intimate 
friendship.  Swedenborgianism  is  a  queer  com- 
pound— fascinating,  elusive,  disappointing.  It  has 
enough  of  scriptural  and  philosophical  truth  to  whet 
the  appetite  of  the  reader,  but  lacks  coherence, 
solidity,  credibility,  and  symmetry.  Swedenborgis 
not  a  lamp  to  light  our  path  in  the  night,  but  an 
aurora  borealis  that  flashes  across  the  cold  and 
darkened  skies  of  speculative  theology.  So  I 
think,  having  in  my  thought  just  now  a  number 
of  Swedenborgian  friends  whose  beautiful  lives 
proved  that  they  are  walking  in  white  with  their 
Lord  the  Christ  of  God. 

The  glamour  of  Universalism  flashed  upon  my 
pathway  during  this  time — a  belief  that  always  had 
an  unsatisfying  charm  for  me,  but  for  which  I  can 
find  no  sufficient  warrant  in  the  teaching  of  the  Bi- 
ble, nor  in  the  analogies  of  nature,  nor  in  the  un- 
challenged facts  of  human  history.  In  certain  sen- 
timental moods  all  of  us  have  Universalist  fancies 
or  impulses.  But  God  in  his  word  declares  that 
the  soul  that  sinneth  must  die,  and  his  administra- 
tion throughout  all  departments  of  his  government 
of  the  universe  illustrates  the  awful  truth — the  aw- 
ful necessity,  let  us  say. 

Unitarianism  attracted  my  attention,  through  the 
writings  of  some  of  the  gifted  men  who  professed 
and  expounded  it;  but  it  never  disturbed  my  mind 
for  one  moment.     The  divinit}^  of  Jesus  Christ  can- 


Ajloat.  71 

not  be  questioned  without  impeaching  his  veracity. 
The  divinity  of  Jesus  Christ  cannot  be  denied  with- 
out denying  the  record  given  of  him  in  the  New  Tes- 
tament Scriptures.     Jesus  Christ  was  God  manifest 

in  the  flesh,  or  he  was stop  !     I  will  not  write  the 

words  that  imply  the  admission  of  doubt.  He  was 
very  God  as  well  as  very  man.  Unitarianism  may 
be  toyed  with  by  dilettanti,  and  by  a  class  of  reli- 
gionists whose  hearts  challenge  what  their  pride 
of  intellect  would  deny;  but  it  never  had,  and 
can  never  have,  any  large  following  among  peo- 
ple who  believe  the  Bible  and  have  the  true  heart- 
hunger  of  earnestness  in  the  search  for  rest  to 
their  souls. 

Calvinism  staggered  me  then,  as  it  does  now. 
I  have  known  so  many  grand  and  good  men  and 
women  who  were  Calvinists,  or  thought  they  were, 
that  I  feel  like  lifting  my  hat  when  I  hear  the  name 
of  the  inexorable  old  logician  of  Geneva.  When 
we  speak  of  the  divine  foreknowledge  and  the 
free  agency  of  man,  and  all  correlated  facts,  we 
are  easily  confounded;  but  when  we  read  that 
Jesus  Christ  by  the  grace  of  God  tasted  death  for 
every  man,  the  doctrine  of  election  seems  clear 
enough.  Here  it  is:  *'The  elect  are  whosoever 
will;  the  nonelect  are  whosoever  won't."  That 
is  about  the  way  they  all  put  it  now.  I  never  got 
anything  but  good  from  a  Presbyterian  pulpit  or 
book. 

By  some  sort  of  instinct,  or  by  some  sort  of  good 
fortune,  I  began  about  this  time  to  move  south- 
w^ard.  I  never  did  like  cold  weather.  When  the 
thermometer  sinks  toward  zero,  my  physical  com- 
fort sinks  with  it.  The  familiar  hymn  that  speaks 
of  heaven  as  a  place  where  there  are  '*  no  chilling 
winds  "  always  had  a  special  charm  for  me.  One 
winter  I  spent  in  Raleigh,  North  Carolina.      The 


*J2  Sunset  Views. 

Raleigh  of  that  day  was  unique — a  city  whose  v^ery 
groves  of  oaks  and  stately  old  mansions  had  a  quiet 
dignity  in  keeping  with  the  character  and  manners 
of  the  people.     It  was  not  a  fussy  or  garish  capital ; 
it  was  serene  and  sound.     The  state  legislature, 
then  in  session,  was  a  study.     Its  lower  branch  was 
presided  over  by  Mr.  Dobbin,  afterwards  Secretary 
of  the  Navy  under  President  Pierce's  administra- 
tion— a  man  who  combined  the  polish  of  a  French 
courtier  with  the  wisdom  and  honesty  of  a  patriot 
whose  head  was  clear  and  whose  heart  was  true. 
His  opposite  was  General  Cotton — a  colossal  com- 
moner from  Chatham  county,  whose  oratory  had  a 
cyclonic  energy,  whose  figures  of  sp^eech  were  as 
gigantic  as  was  his  own  physique,  whose  orations 
excited  wonder  among  his  colleagues  and  applause 
in  the  galleries.     The  Stajidard,  the  Democratic 
organ,  was  conducted  by  William  W.  Holden,  a 
sturdy,   scholarly-looking   man  with   heavy  black 
eyebrows  and  pallid  complexion,  who  then  harped 
on  state  rights  and  hurrahed  for  Andrew  Jackson. 
The  Register^  the  Whig  organ,  was  conducted  by 
Gales  and  Seaton,  and  had  long  been  an  exponent 
of  the  policies  and  a  supporter  of  the  candidates  of 
the  party  whose  idol  was  Henry  Clay.     Among  the 
preachers  I  heard  in  Raleigh  was  Doctor  Rufus  T. 
Heflin,  one  of  its  Methodist  pastors — a  man  whose 
face  was  that  of  one  who  held  secret  communion 
with  God,  and  whose  preaching  had  that  indefina- 
ble yet  unmistakable  quality,  the  unction  from  on 
high,  that  differentiates  the  true  preaching  of  the 
gospel  from  all  merely  human  orator}^     This  man 
and  his  preaching  were  a  link  that  bound  me  still  to 
the  Church  in  which  I  was  born  and  baptized. 

I  spent  a  season  in  Columbia,  South  Carolina.  It 
was  then  as  now  the  capital  of  that  state ;  and  a 
lively  capital  it  was  in  that  day  of  big  cotton  crops. 


Ajloat.  73 

and  other  big  things,  good  and  bad,  to  match.  It 
was  an  aristocratic  city  then,  having  an  aristocracy 
of  birth,  an  aristocracy  of  money,  an  aristocracy 
of  brains,  and  an  aristocracy  of  courage.  Wade 
Hampton,  son  of  the  father  so  named  also,  was 
then  a  roystering  young  fellow  with  a  practically 
unlimited  bank  account,  a  lover  of  sport,  and  afraid 
of  nothing — typical  of  the  rich  young  Southerner 
of  that  day.  The  genius  of  John  C.  Calhoun  and 
the  scholarship  and  oratory  of  William.  C.  Preston 
and  others  like  them  had  inoculated  South  Caroli- 
na and  its  capital  city  with  their  opinions  and  in- 
spired their  youth  with  their  ideals :  patriotism  was 
a  passion  and  the  hustings  and  the  forum  the  lad- 
ders to  civic  glory.  Chivalry  was  not  a  misnomer 
with  those  South  Carolinians.  The  one  unpardon- 
able sin  in  a  public  man  was  cowardice :  it  was  the 
one  thing  despised  by  all  men  in  all  the  grades  of 
society.  The  fashion,  so  to  speak,  set  in  the  di- 
rection of  a  lofty  public  virtue  and  an  ardent  and 
uncalculating  patriotism  and  state  pride,  and  chiv- 
alry that  was  well  named.  That  chivalry  was  at 
times  rassh  and  passionate,  but  it  had  its  roots  in 
convictions  that  were  genuine,  and  a  devotion  that 
was  absolute.  Doctor  Whitefoord  Smith  was  the 
preacher  I  heard  oftenest  in  Columbia — and  what 
a  preacher  he  was  I  All  sorts  of  persons  crowded 
to  hear  him.  He  had  the  easy  swing  of  the  hus- 
tings and  the  brilliant  rhetoric  of  the  schools,  the 
evangelical  glow  of  a  man  of  prayer  and  the  polish 
of  a  man  who  knew  and  loved  the  classics.  Meth- 
odism in  South  Carolina  was  then  aglow  and  mov- 
ing. Bishop  William  Capers  was  in  the  prime  of 
his  strength — a  man  who  was  a  Chrysostom  in  the 
pulpit,  a  Barnabas  to  the  sorrow-stricken.  Doctor 
William  M.  Wightman  was  then  editing  the  South- 
ern Christian  Advocate,  published  at  Charleston, 


74  Sunset  Views, 

and  he  was  putting  into  it  the  vigorous  thought, 
logical  method,  and  elegant  diction  for  which  he 
was  distinguished.  He  was  afterwards  a  professor 
in  the  Southern  University,  and  then  made  a  bish- 
op ;  but  he  never  did  better  work  for  his  Lord  and 
for  the  Church  than  when  he  was  editor  of  its  or- 
gan in  South  Carolina.  The  Methodism  of  the 
state  and  of  its  capital  was  strong  enough  to  be 
seen  and  felt  even  by  a  wayfarer.  It  made  for 
me  an  atmosphere  warm  enough  to  keep  alive  in 
my  soul  the  seeds  of  truth  that  had  been  sown 
therein.  The  arms  of  my  mother-Church  were 
still  around  me,  holding  me  back  from  evil  and 
ruin.  If  these  pages  shall  ever  see  the  light,  how 
many  readers  will  be  ready  to  join  with  me  in 
thanksgiving  to  God  for  the  influence  of  Metho- 
dism which  goes  everywhere  and  always  carries  a 
blessing!  And  how  many  will  also  be  ready  to 
join  with  me  in  a  prayer  that  it  may  never  lose  the 
love  that  impels  its  movement,  or  the  light  that 
shines  upon  its  pathway  of  blessing. 


A  TURNING  POINT 


A  TURNING   POINT. 

AN  attack  of  typhoid  fever  was  a  turning 
point  in  my  life.  It  came  to  me  in  the  city 
of  Macon,  Georgia.  I  was  a  stranger,  and 
at  a  hotel.  The  mulatto  boy,  Albert,  who 
waited  upon  me,  saved  my  life.  The  doc- 
tors had  given  me  up  to  die.  I  heard  them  say  to 
the  boy:  '*  Give  him  anything  he  asks  for."  I 
made  a  sign  that  I  wanted  ice  water,  and  it  was 
brought — a  pitcher  full,  cold  as  it  could  be.  I 
drank,  and  drank,  and  drank !  I  felt  the  cool- 
ness to  my  very  finger-tips,  and  said  to  myself  in- 
wardly, **  I  will  get  well" — and  I  did.  It  was  the 
ice  water  that  did  it.  The  surprised  doctors  post- 
poned the  funeral  that  they  expected.  I  came  up 
out  of  the  jaws  of  death,  and  by  slow  degrees  ap- 
petite and  strength  came  back  to  me.  I  had  time 
to  think  and  pray,  to  look  at  my  past  life,  and  to 
ponder  the  paths  of  my  feet.  By  a  happy  coinci- 
dence the  mulatto  boy,  who  was  my  nurse,  be- 
longed to  the  man  who  became  my  bosom  friend 
— Robert  A.  Smith,  that  unique  combination  of 
lawyer,  soldier,  and  saint,  of  whom  I  have  written 
elsewhere.  Chivalry  of  the  highest  type  of  the  old 
South  and  saintliness  as  sturdy  as  Luther's  and  as 
tender  as  Fletcher's  were  blended  in  this  man.  He 
crossed  my  path  in  the  providence  of  God  at  a 
critical  moment  in  my  life,  and  I  shall  thank  God 
forever  that  it  was  so.  In  a  prayer  meeting,  or  by 
the  bedside  of  the  sick  or  the  dying,  I  never  heard 
a  man  pray  who  seemed  to  be  nearer  to  God.  At 
the  head  of  his  military  company,  the  Macon  Vol- 
unteers, I  never  saw  a  knightlier  figure.     He  was 

(77) 


7^  Sunset  Views, 

what  will  be  regarded  as  a  strange  anomaly  in  the 
good  time  coming  for  this  earth — a  Christian  sol- 
dier. It  is  distinctly  promised  in  the  word  of  the 
Lord  that  wars  are  to  cease  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  and  that  the  nations  shall  learn  war  no  more. 
This  is  a  strange  thought  in  this  day  of  war  ships 
that  cost  milHons  of  dollars  each,  huge  standing 
armies,  forts,  arsenals,  and  military  schools  for 
which  the  masses  are  loaded  down  with  taxation, 
and  peace  is  kept  between  civilized  nations  by  fear 
and  skillful  balancing  of  power  rather  than  by  rea- 
son, persuasion,  and  religion.  Civilized  nations, 
did  I  say?  It  is  not  Christian  civilization,  surely. 
The  Prince  of  Peace  will  bring  in  another  sort — 
and  it  will  be  here  in  this  world,  for  it  is  his  world. 
He  shall  reign  until  all  enemies  are  put  under  his 
feet.  War  is  the  child  of  sin,  and  the  enemy  of  all 
that  is  good.  The  groans  of  the  dying  victims  of 
the  sinking  war  ship  Maine,  in  the  harbor  of  Ha- 
vana, are  in  my  ears  as  I  write  to-day — February 
23,  1898 — mingling  with  the  music  of  the  song  of 
universal  peace  heard  by  the  ear  of  faith  as  it  comes 
nearer  and  yet  nearer. 

That  robust  yet  tearful  evangelist.  Doctor 
James  E.  Evans,  was  then  pastor  of  the  Mulberry 
Street  Methodist  Church  in  Macon.  He  was  a 
great  man  all  round — a  Church  financier  of  the 
first  order  in  ability;  an  expository  preacher,  who 
rightly  divided  and  pointedly  applied  the  word  of 
truth ;  a  weeping  prophet,  whose  tears  were  not  the 
expression  of  nervous  weakness  and  shallow  sen- 
timentality, but  the  overflowing  of  a  mighty  soul 
travailing  in  agony  over  lost  souls.  All  Macon 
was  stirred  by  this  deep-toned  preacher,  who  had 
power  with  God  and  man.  This  revival  wave 
struck  me  when  I  was  ready  for  it.  On  my  sick- 
bed and  during  my  convalescence  the  Holy  Spirit 


A   Turning  Point.  79 

had  spoken  to  my  soul  the  things  that  made  for  my 
peace  because  I  was  quiet  enough  to  hsten.  I 
thought  on  my  ways,  and  turned  my  feet  to  the 
testimonies  of  God  with  a  solemn  earnestness  born 
of  reflection  and  under  the  leading  of  the  Holy 
Spirit  that  had  followed  me  and  striven  with  me 
all  my  life.  Kneeling  at  the  chancel  with  others 
one  night  never  to  be  forgotten,  amid  prayer  and 
holy  song,  Doctor  William  H.  Ellison  bent  above 
me  and  softly  spoke  to  me  some  words  that  helped 
me  then  and  there  to  give  myself  wholly  to  the 
Lord — to  choose  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  as  my  Sav- 
iour, with  a  purpose  to  follow  him  as  long  as  I 
lived.  There  was  no  reserve  in  my  consecration. 
Heaven  came  into  my  soul — the  heaven  of  holy 
peace,  and  the  joy  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  The  expe- 
rience was  unspeakably  solemn  and  sweet.  Yes, 
thank  God,  it  is  unspeakably  solemn  and  sweet, 
for  I  feel  it  now^  as  I  did  then.  It  is  the  same  in 
its  quality,  but — let  me  w^ite  it  with  humility  and 
adoring  thankfulness — it  is  fuller  and  deeper  after 
the  lapse  of  years  between  the  early  fifties  and  this, 
next  to  the  closing  years  of  the  nineties.  I  need 
not  give  a  name  to  this  experience.  The  initiated 
reader  knows  what  it  is ;  the  uninitiated  may  know. 
Whosoever  will  may  take  freely  of  this  water  of 
life;  and  he  may  do  so  now. 


INITIATED, 


INITIATED. 

THE  year  1854  ^^^  the  date  of  my  entrance 
upon  the  traveling  ministry  of  the  Meth- 
odist Episcopal  Church,  South,  as  my 
life  work.  The  only  discount  upon  my 
grateful  joy  in  recording  this  fact  is  from 
a  consciousness  of  my  shortcomings.  But  God 
in  his  grace  and  goodness  has  so  borne  with  me 
and  sustained  me  during  all  these  years  that  grati- 
tude ought  to  be  the  dominant  note  of  my  song — 
and  it  is.  The  Georgia  Conference  met  at  At- 
lanta that  year.  The  Atlanta  of  1854  ^^^  smaller 
than  that  of  to-day,  but  it  was  of  Hke  quality- 
wide-awake,  busy,  but  not  too  busy  to  be  hospita- 
ble. Bishop  William  Capers  presided;  J.  Blake- 
ly  Smith  was  secretary.  It  was  a  venerable  body 
of  men.  Somewhat  has  been  said  of  some  of 
them  by  me  elsewhere.  To  them  Georgia  Meth- 
odism is  indebted  for  much  of  what  it  has  achieved. 
For  the  secretary,  Brother  J.  Blakely  Smith,  I 
felt  a  peculiar  regard  as  a  friend  and  brother. 
This  special  friendship  between  us  had  its  begin- 
ning in  a  singular  incident,  which  is  here  recited 
for  a  good  purpose,  after  some  hesitation.  It  hap- 
pened in  this  way.  Secretary  Smith  was  a  large- 
framed  man,  with  florid  complexion,  deep,  strong 
voice,  and  a  masterful  way  in  what  he  said  and 
did.  Not  knowing  him  as  he  was,  my  first  impres- 
sion concerning  him  was  unfavorable.  He  seemed 
to  me  to  be  impatient  and  rude  in  his  treatment  of 
a  large  proportion  of  the  preachers  of  the  Confer- 
ence. My  ideal  of  the  ministerial  office  was  a 
most  lofty  one,  and  I  was  shocked  and  grieved 

(83) 


84  Sunset  Views. 

at  what  seemed  to  me  so  palpable  a  violation  of 
ministerial  and  brotherly  courtesy.  My  surprise 
and  resentment  increased  daily.  At  length,  during 
a  forenoon  session,  E.  P.  Pitchford,  a  venerable 
and  holy  man,  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  body, 
rose  just  in  front  of  me  and  asked  the  secretary 
some  question  pertaining  to  the  business  of  the 
Conference.  The  answer  was  crusty,  even  to  rude- 
ness: in  substance  it  seemed  to  imply  that  it  was 
a  silly  question,  such  as  only  a  simpleton  would 
ask.  A  look  of  pain  came  over  the  good  old  man's 
face;  he  stood  a  moment  in  silence,  then  sank 
into  his  seat,  bent  his  head  forward  shaded  by  his 
hands,  while  the  tears  coursed  down  his  cheeks. 
Before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  I  was  on  my  feet, 
and  being  recognized  by  the  bishop  I  said:  *'  Bish- 
op Capers,  I  am  not  a  member  of  this  body,  but  I 
ask  leave  to  say  a  few  words  just  now."  ''Pro- 
ceed, Brother  Fitzgerald,"  said  the  saintly  and 
courtly  man  in  the  chair.  **  What  I  want  to  say  is 
this:  that  the  secretary  of  this  Conference  seems 
to  have  two  sets  of  manners.  To  you,  sir,  and  to 
the  titled  and  more  distinguished  members  of  this 
body,  he  is  polite  almost  to  excess ;  but  if  he  has 
once  spoken  kindly  to  any  of  the  younger  men  or 
the  less  notable  older  men  of  this  Conference,  I 
have  not  heard  it.  Look  at  Father  Pitchford,  who 
sits  yonder  in  tears  of  humiliation :  if  he  had  been  a 
dog,  he  could  scarcely  have  been  spoken  to  more 
scornfully."  Just  then  I  began  to  realize  what  I 
was  doing  under  the  impulse  that  had  come  upon 
me — the  sort  of  impulse  I  always  feel  at  any  ex- 
hibition of  arrogant  officialism  or  tyranny  of  any 
sort.  But  a  shower  of  '*Amens  "  rose  all  around 
as  I  sat  down  with  a  flushed  face  and  heart  aflut- 
ter. 

The  secretar}^  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  pale  face 


Initiated.  8 


and  trembling  voice.  '*  Brethren,"  he  said,  "is 
this  that  Brother  Fitzgerald  has  said  of  me  true?" 

**Yes,"  said  the  venerable  Allen  Turner;  "yes, 
we  have  noticed  it,  and  talked  of  it,  and  grieved 
over  it." 

A  number  of  assenting  voices  responded  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  Conference  room. 

"As  God  is  my  judge,"  said  the  secretary  with 
deep  emotion,  "as  God  is  my  judge,  I  did  not 
know  it.  My  natural  manner  is  rather  brusque  or 
abrupt.  To  you,  bishop,  and  to  the  older  and 
more  distinguished  members  of  this  Conference, 
to  whom  I  have  been  accustomed  to  look  up  with 
reverence  and  admiration,  my  manner  may  have 
been  more  deferential  than  to  other  members  of 
the  Conference.  But  I  love  every  member  of  this 
body:  if  there  was  any  rudeness  in  my  manner,  it 
was  not  in  my  heart;  and  as  to  Father  Pitchford, 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  go  to  where  he  sits,  kneel  at 
his  feet,  ask  his  forgiveness,  and  bathe  his  feet 
with  my  tears.  And  as  to  my  young  Brother  Fitz- 
gerald," he  continued  with  profound  feeling,  "I 
honor  him  for  what  he  has  done,  and  will  always 
love  him.  He  spoke  out  to  my  face  in  open  Con- 
ference what  was  in  his  heart,  while  my  older 
brethren  only  censured  me  privately,  never  speak- 
ing to  me  of  my  fault." 

There  was  a  true  man !  He  became  from  that 
day  my  devoted  friend ;  and  the  more  fully  I  knew 
him,  the  more  I  admired  and  loved  this  able-bod- 
ied, warm-blooded,  great-souled  Georgia  preacher. 
The  moral  of  this  incident,  narrated  with  some 
hesitancy,  is:  First,  that  a  good  man  may  err  un- 
consciously in  his  bearing;  and,  second,  that  crit- 
icisms behind  his  back  are  not  likely  to  do  him 
any  good.  It  may  be  noted  here  that  when  I 
started  to  California  Blakely  Smith  accompanied 


86  Sunset  Views. 

me  from  Macon  as  far  as  Fort  Valley  on  a  cold, 
frosty  morning,  saying:  **  I  want  to  be  the  last 
Georgian  that  gives  your  hand  a  farewell  shake." 
He  has  passed  over  into  the  world  of  spirits.  If  he 
were  here  on  earth,  his  manly  nature  would  un- 
derstand the  motive  that  prompts  me  to  recall  this 
incident  of  the  far-away  past. 

Blessed  be  the  memory  of  those  old  Georgia 
preachers !  About  the  time  I  had  gotten  through 
my  impulsive  arraignment  of  the  secretary,  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  I  had  committed  ecclesiastical 
hara-kiri;  that  that  company  of  venerable  and  holy 
men  would  look  upon  me  as  a  pert  and  pragmatic 
youth,  unsuited  to  the  solemn  and  delicate  func- 
tions of  the  Christian  ministry.  But  they  took  me 
to  their  hearts,  and  made  me  feel  the  glow  of  affec- 
tion which  has  not  cooled  to  this  hour.  I  was  ad- 
mitted on  trial  with  expressions  of  hearty  good  will 
that  would  have  moved  a  colder  man  than  I  think 
myself  to  be.  Dear  old  Georgia!  my  second 
mother  on  the  religious  side.  May  the  God  of  our 
fathers  smile  on  their  children's  children  unto  the 
latest  generation ! 

Thus  was  I  initiated. 


MY  ENVIRONMENT. 


MY  ENVIRONMENT. 

I  WAS  fully-  initiated  into  Church  relationship 
in  Georgia,  and  I  shall  always  be  thankful 
that  it  was  where  it  was,  when  it  was,  and 
how  it  was  that  this  came  about.  My  en- 
vironment was  favorable,  and  God  was  lead- 
ing me.  Georgia  Methodism  was  then  very  power- 
ful, a  militant  army  accustomed  to  victory.  Look 
for  a  moment  at  the  men  w^ho  stood  in  her  pulpits 
and  served  at  her  altars.  The  two  Pierces — the 
father  and  son,  *'the  old  doctor"  and  the  bishop 
— were  then  at  the  zenith  of  their  power  and  pop- 
ularity. George  F.  Pierce  was  then  the  pulpit 
star  of  Georgia — an  Apollo  in  physical  beauty,  a 
pulpit  orator  possessing  every  quality  that  excites 
the  admiration  and  delight  of  listening  multitudes, 
and,  best  of  all,  gifted  with  a  spiritual  insight  that 
enabled  him  to  flash  into  the  hearts  of  sinners  the 
search-light  that  made  them  see  the  exceeding  sin- 
fulness of  sin.  Georgia  was  magnetized  by  this 
favorite  son.  His  personality  pervaded  the  state. 
The  last  declamation  or  pungent  aphorism  of 
"George  Pierce,"  as  he  was  fondly  called  to  the 
last,  was  current  coin  in  all  circles  of  society  in 
Georgia.  That  state  is  richer  to-day  because  his 
genius  was  sanctified  genius.  This  well-worn 
word  is  used  thoughtfully  in  this  connection : 
sanctified  genius  is  the  highest  human  instrumen- 
tality that  God  uses  to  bless  the  world.  The  **  old 
doctor,"  Lovick  Pierce,  the  father,  was  not  as 
*' flowery"  or  rhetorical  or  brilliantly  declamatory 
as  his.  son,  but  it  w^as  the  undoubting  belief  of 
many  of  the  elder  Georgians  of  that  day  that  he 

(89) 


90  Sunset  V'iews. 

was  the  profoundest  thinker  and  the  ablest  ex- 
pounder of  the  Scriptures  then  living.  He  was 
truly  a  marvelous  preacher — deeply  spiritual,  with 
a  mighty  sweep  of  thought  and  a  vocabulary  to 
match,  with  the  unction  of  the  Holy  One  that  lit- 
erally made  his  face  to  shine.  He  delighted  in  the 
grandest  themes,  and  his  diction  had  the  roll  of 
evangelical  thunder.  The  simple  grandeur  of 
his  character  had  a  charm  for  all  sorts  of  peo- 
ple. The  rudest  rustic  of  the  backwoods,  the 
profoundest  jurist,  and  the  most  learned  scholar 
alike  held  him  in  reverent  esteem.  That  mighty 
man  of  God,  Samuel  Anthon}^ — "old  Ironsides" 
he  was  fondly  called  by  his  admirers — was  preach- 
ing sermons  that  stirred  to  the  depths  the  con- 
sciences of  entire  communities.  Single  sermons 
by  him  almost  wrought  moral  revolutions  where 
they  were  preached.  He  did  not  fear  the  face  of 
man,  and  shunned  not  to  declare  the  whole  coun- 
sel of  God.  His  tall,  gaunt,  sinewy  figure,  his 
rugged  features  and  severe  simplicity  of  dress 
were  in  keeping  with  his  character  and  his  mes- 
sage. At  times  he  rose  to  heights  of  almost  super- 
natural grandeur  of  thought  and  expression,  and 
at  others  he  melted  into  a  tenderness  that  was  over- 
whelming. In  the  one  mood  he  was  an  Elijah;  in 
the  other,  a  Jeremiah.  My  faith  in  God  is  stronger 
to  this  hour  because  I  heard  the  sermons  and 
prayers  of  this  old  Georgia  hero-saint.  And 
there  was  William  M.  Crumley,  a  wise  and  holy 
man,  a  spiritual  battery  always  charged;  John 
W.  Knight,  an  eccentric  genius,  who  in  one 
mood  was  ecstatic  as  an  angel  and  in  another 
wished  he  were  **a  black  cat";  Eustace  W. 
Speer,  whose  short  expository  sermons  sparkled 
with  gems  of  wisdom  and  flashes  of  rhetorical 
beauty  from   the   first  sentence   to    the   last;    Ed- 


My  Environment,  91 

ward  H.  Myers,  who  had  the  gift  of  usefulness 
more  than  that  of  popularity,  a  scholar  worth}^ 
of  the  name,  a  preacher  who  preferred  to  profit 
rather  than  merely  to  please  his  hearers,  a  teach- 
er who  put  conscience  as  well  as  capability  into 
his  work  in  the  schoolroom ;  William  Arnold — 
''Uncle  Billy,''  as  he  was  familiarly  called — who 
combined  common  sense  and  uncommon  spiritual 
power  in  the  pulpit  and  in  the  councils  of  the 
Church;  Jesse  Boring,  a  man  of  genius  and  a 
man  of  many  tribulations,  whose  sermons  at  times 
reached  the  most  startling  and  effective  climaxes; 
John  M.  Bonnell,  whose  saintliness  and  scholar- 
ship made  him  a  sort  of  Georgia  Melanchthon; 
John  C.  Simmons,  sturdy  as  a  Georgia  oak,  fer- 
vent as  a  tropical  summer;  Alexander  Means,  in 
whom  pedagogy,  poetry,  and  pulpit  eloquence 
were  delightfully  blended;  Augustus  B.  Long- 
street,  best  known  as  a  humorist,  but  whose  best 
work  was  done  in  the  pulpit  and  in  the  classroom, 
whose  influence  impressed  on  the  fleshly  tablets  of 
the  hearts  of  his  pupils  will  last  when  his  "  Geor- 
gia Scenes"  may  be  forgotten;  John  P.  Duncan, 
a  sunny-soiiled  man,  whose  sweet  spiritual  songs 
helped  to  float  many  a  penitent  over  the  bars  of 
unbelief  into  the  still  waters  of  peace;  and  then  a 
lot  of  younger  men,  some  of  whom  have  since 
made  their  mark:  John  W.  Burke,  the  friendli- 
est of  the  friendly,  a  lover  of  children  and  beloved 
by  all;  J.  O.  A.  Clark,  a  thinker  whose  logic  was 
tuned  to  love;  J.  W.  Hinton,  who  hewed  huge 
masses  of  truth  out  of  the  quarry  of  inspiration 
and  built  them  into  homiletic  structures  solid  and 
stately;  W.  P.  Harrison,  a  walking  encyclopedia 
of  religious  knowledge,  guileless  as  a  child,  wise 
with  the  wisdom  that  comes  from  above;  Thomas 
F.  Jordan,  an  eloquent  man  of  sanguine  temper. 


92  Situ  set  Views. 

who  kindled  quickly  and  set  his  hearers  aglow; 
George  G.  N.  MacDonell,  a  crystal  of  Christian 
character  without  a  flaw;  Oliver  P.  Anthony,  a 
kingly-looking  man  with  soul  to  match,  whose 
heart  was  as  gentle  as  that  of  a  woman,  whose 
courage  was  that  of  a  knighthood  when  knights 
were  knights  indeed;  Robert  W.  Bigham,  who 
on  both  sides  of  the  continent  has  lived  a  life  and 
preached  a  gospel  that  made  many  to  see  the  beau- 
ty of  divine  truth  and  to  follow  Him  who  is  the 
Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life;  W.  H.  Christian, 
who  is  a  man  with  that  gift  of  common  sense  which 
the  Head  of  the  Church  is  always  ready  to  utilize 
for  its  edification;  W.  F.  Glenn,  an  Israelite  with- 
out guile,  an  editor  whose  work  is  pitched  on  the 
New  Testament  plane,  a  man  whom  it  is  impossi- 
ble not  to  love  and  to  trust:  these,  and  many  more 
not  less  worthy  of  mention,  were  then  at  work  as 
Methodist  preachers  in  Georgia. 

For  a  special  reason  I  mention  one  more  name — 
that  of  William  Davies,  one  of  the  young  men  who 
was  then  just  starting  in  the  ministry.  He  was  a 
tall,  handsome  man,  ruddy-faced, blue-eyed,  grace- 
ful in  every  motion,  and  of  presence  magnetic. 
He  came  of  a  preaching  family,  but  for  a  time  he 
had  been  *'wild."  In  one  of  the  deep-reaching 
revivals  that  were  prevalent  in  Georgia  in  that  day 
he  was  powerfully  converted — that  is  the  old 
phrase;  the  initiated  reader  will  understand  it. 
He  heard  and  obeyed  a  call  to  preach  which  im- 
mediately followed  his  conversion .  * '  Fitzgerald , ' ' 
he  said  to  me  one  day,  *'I  love  God  more  than 
you  can  love  him :  he  has  done  more  for  me  than 
for  anybody  else  on  earth  " — his  eyes  swimming  in 
tears  as  he  spoke.  I  have  had  the  same  feeling 
many  times.  Who  that  ever  felt  the  joy  of  par- 
doned  sin   has    not   had   it?     Under   the  ministry 


My  Environment.  93 

of  such  men  as  these  a  living  membership  was 
iDrought  in  and  built  up  in  the  Church — men  like 
Matthew  Rylander,  whose  prayers  opened  the 
gates  of  heaven  and  brought  glory  from  the  mercy- 
seat;  Ed.  Salisbury,  whose  songs  had  the  touch 
that  was  sweeter  than  art  could  give,  the  touch  of 
the  live  coal  from  off  the  altar;  Thomas  R.  R. 
Cobb,  a  statesman  who  in  public  life  exhibited 
the  integrity  and  ability  that  befitted  his  sphere,  a 
Methodist  who  in  his  private  life  united  a  humility 
that  was  most  beautiful  with  a  social  glow  that 
was  irresistible;  Walter  T.  Colquitt,  politician 
and  preacher,  Methodist  and  Democrat,  strangely 
mixed,  a  very  brilliant  man;  Robert  Toombs, 
whose  Methodist  wife,  together  with  his  friend- 
ship for  George  F.  Pierce,  brought  him  into  close 
touch  with  Methodism.  Pierce  and  Toombs — the 
bishop  and  the  senator — were  classmates  at  the 
University  of  Georgia  and  close  friends  all  their 
lives.  It  is  said  that  once  in  a  confidential  mood 
Toombs  laid  his  hand  on  Pierce's  knee,  saying, 
**  George,  I  want  you  to  take  me  into  the  Church." 
*' Why  do  you  wish  it?  Are  you  ready  to  begin  in 
earnest  a  Christian  life  ?  "  asked  the  bishop.  **No, 
George,"  replied  Toombs,  '*I  am  not  fit  for  mem- 
bership in  the  Church.  But  I  have  a  fear  that  I 
may  die  suddenly  some  day,  and  some  fool  might 
say  that  I  was  a  skeptic."  From  the  United  States 
Senator  to  the  humblest  walks  in  life  Methodism 
in  Georgia  was  regnant,  touching  all  classes  and 
making  an  atmosphere  for  its  adherents  warm  with 
spiritual  life.  The  class  meeting  was  still  a  living 
institution  of  the  Church  in  Georgia,  in  which  its 
young  life  was  watched  over  and  developed  in  a 
way  that  promoted  stabiHty  and  growth.  I  was 
enrolled  at  once  as  a  member  of  a  class — the  one 
led  by  Robert  A.  Smith,  of  whom  I  have  spoken 


94  Sunset  Views. 

elsewhere,  and  whose  name,  as  my  eye  falls  upon 
it  on  this  page,  makes  me  feel  like  saying:  My 
God,  I  thank  thee  that  there  is  such  a  thing  in  this 
earthly  life  as  Christian  friendship,  and  for  the 
hope  that  it  will  be  renewed  and  perfected  and 
perpetuated  in  the  unending  years  that  await  us  in 
the  world  of  spirits. 


MY  FIRST  SERMON, 


MY   FIRST  SERMON. 

IT  must  have  been  foreordained  that  I  was  to 
be  a  preacher  of  the  gospel.  A  sort  of  pre- 
sentiment that  it  was  to  be  so  had  been  with  me 
from  my  early  boyhood.  It  was  in  Doctor 
Penn's  prayer  at  my  baptism  at  two  days  old. 
It  was  the  wish  and  the  expectation  of  my  mother. 
It  was  like  a  prophetic  undertone  through  all  my 
previous  life.  My  Methodist  brethren  and  other 
Christian  friends  now  seemed  to  expect  it.  Three 
things  entered  into  my  call  to  preach,  as  it  seemed 
to  me  then  and  as  it  seems  to  me  now — the  mov- 
ing of  the  Holy  Spirit,  the  consensus  of  the 
Church,  and  God's  providential  leadings.  I  was 
first  licensed  to  exhort — a  function  now  almost 
disused,  but  once  greatly  magnified  among  Meth- 
odists. Some  of  these  exhorters  preached  well: 
some  preachers  only  exhorted  warmly.  Exhorta- 
tion ought  to  be  a  part  of  most  sermons.  Not 
every  zealous  young  man  waited  for  official  license 
in  those  days,  for  the  Methodists  of  the  time  had 
felt,  believed,  and  hoped  for  what  was  worth  tell- 
ing. They  had  liberty.  The  class  meeting  was 
a  school  of  the  prophets  in  a  gracious  sense.  The 
leaders  were  not  always  learned  in  literature,  sci- 
ence, philosophy,  or  art,  but  as  a  rule  they  were 
wise  in  things  pertaining  to  practical  religion. 
They  knew  the  Bible,  they  knew  Jesus  as  a  Sav- 
iour, they  knew  human  nature,  they  knew  human 
life,  and  they  gave  to  many  young  men  the  first 
impetus  toward  the  pulpit.  Taking  a  portion  of 
Scripture,  I  began  to  expound  and  exhort.  The 
exposition  was  doubtless  most  elementary  in  its 
7  (97) 


98  Sunset  Views. 

quality,  and  the  exhorting  was  what  might  be  ex- 
pected from  a  young  exhorter  whose  chief  tenet 
and  prof oundest  feeling  were  that  Jesus  Christ  was 
the  Saviour  of  sinners  in  the  present  tense. 

My  first  sermon  was  preached  in  a  Presbyterian 
church.  It  happened  thus:  I  was  on  a  visit  to  my 
kindred  in  North  Carolina.  On  a  bright  Sunday 
morning  I  had  driven  with  my  sister  Martha  over 
to  the  old  Bethesda  Presbyterian  church,  near  the 
line  between  Caswell  and  Rockingham  counties, 
with  the  expectation  of  hearing  the  Rev.  Dr.  J.  G. 
Doll,  a  distinguished  preacher  of  that  denomina- 
tion. On  our  arrival  I  saw  that  the  grove  around 
the  old  country  church  was  crowded  with  horses 
and  vehicles  of  all  sorts,  from  the  stylish  family 
carriages  of  the  rural  '*  quality"  down  to  the  most 
primitive  carryalls  and  lean-bodied  nags  of  the 
poorer  sort.  As  I  drove  up  to  the  edge  of  the 
grove  that  songful  old  saint  and  elder,  Uncle  John- 
ny Jones,  who  seemed  to  be  watching  for  me, 
came  up,  took  my  horse's  bridle,  fastened  him  to 
a  swinging  limb  of  an  oak,  and  after  helping  my 
sister  to  alight  took  me  aside. 

''Oscar,"  he  said  very  solemnly,  ''you  must 
preach  here  to-day." 

"Uncle  Johnny,  I  am  not  a  preacher,"  I  an- 
swered, flushing  with  a  pecuhar  feeling  that  came 
over  me. 

"You  have  been  holding  meetings,  haven't 
you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  but  only  prayer  meetings  among  our 
Methodist  people:  I  have  no  license  to  preach,"  I 
answered. 

'*  Oscar,  you  must  preach  here  to-day!"  said 
the  venerable  man  with  deep  solemnity.  "A  note 
from  Dr.  Doll  tells  me  that  he  was  seized  with 
sudden  sickness  and  is  at  Yanceyville  in  bed,  un- 


My  First  Sermon.  99 

able  to  get  here.  You  see  what  a  great  crowd  of 
people  have  come  out  to  hear  him,  some  of  them 
living  ten  miles  or  more  away.  There  will  be  a 
great  disappointment  if  we  have  no  preaching,  and 
harm  will  result  to  the  cause  of  religion.  Oscar, 
you  must  preach  !  " 

A  struggle  had  been  going  on  within  me  while 
the  good  old  man  was  speaking.  I  felt  that  the 
hour  had  come  for  the  decision  of  a  momentous 
question.     I  said: 

**Go  into  the  pulpit  with  me,  conduct  the  pre- 
liminary exercises,  and  then  I  will  do  whatever  I 
feel  I  ought  to  do." 

**A11  right,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

As  I  walked  down  the  aisle  of  the  church,  it 
seemed  to  me  almost  that  it  was  a  league  in  length ; 
and  as  I  sat  in  the  pulpit  and  glanced  at  that  wait- 
ing congregation,  the  faces  seemed  to  multiply 
themselves  indefinitely.  It  was  a  clear  case  of 
pulpit  scare.  The  dear  old  elder  was  a  sweet 
singer  and  gifted  in  prayer.  When  he  had  fin- 
ished I  had  a  text  ready,  and  a  full  heart.  The 
text  was  Jeremiah  xii.  5  :  * '  If  thou  hast  run  with  the 
footmen,  and  they  have  wearied  thee,  then  how 
canst  thou  contend  with  horses  ?  and  if  in  the  land 
of  peace,  wherein  thou  trustedst,  they  wearied 
thee,  then  how  wilt  thou  do  in  the  swelling  of  Jor- 
dan?" That  sermon  will  not  here  be  given  even 
in  outline — if  outline  it  had.  But  if  ever  I  have 
had  **  liberty"  in  preaching,  I  had  it  that  day. 
Many  of  my  old  schoolmates  and  early  friends 
were  in  the  congregation,  curiosity  and  sympathy 
mingling  in  their  consciousness.  A  great  tide  of 
feeling  swelled  up  from  the  depths  of  my  heart 
and  overflowed  all.  We  all  wept  together.  The 
old  elder  praised  God,  and  old  Bethesda  was. 
aglow.      I  had  my  license  to  preach;   surely  the 


lOO  Stinset  Views. 

Lord  had  settled  for  me  the  question  of  my  voca- 
tion. His  Church  had  already  been  drawing  me 
the  same  way.  The  Church  and  its  Head  draw 
the  willing  soul  in  the  same  direction  when  the 
Holy  Spirit  has  control.  Dr.  Doll  came  up  the 
next  day:  special  services  were  begun,  and  many 
souls  were  brought  to  Christ.  Surely  the  Lord 
has  his  own  best  way  of  working.  My  life-work 
was  found,  and  my  soul  was  flooded  with  a  peace 
that  was  the  peace  of  God. 


PREACHING  TO  THE  BLACKS. 


PREACHING   TO  THE  BLACKS. 

ON  my  return  to  Georgia  I  received  a  local 
preacher's  license  in  the  city  of  Macon. 
Shortly  thereafter  Dr.  Mason,  who  had 
charge  of  the  negro  Methodist  congre- 
gation, died,  and  I  was  put  in  charge  of 
it.  I  have  a  lively  and  grateful  recollection  of 
this  experience.  Those  black  Methodists  were 
numerous,  responsive,  musical,  and  demonstrative 
to  a  degree  that  was  astonishing  to  uninitiated  vis- 
itors. They  gave  me  their  hearts  and  helped  me 
much  in  many  ways.  My  first  Sunday  with  them 
was  memorable  for  the  prayer  that  followed  my 
attempt  to  preach.  I  had  called  on  Abram  Mc- 
Gregor, the  patriarch  of  the  flock- — a  tall,  black 
man,  with  high  cheek  bones,  a  face  whose  lines 
were  all  strong  and  good,  and  a  soul  that  loved 
God  and  feared  nothing  but  sin.  By  virtue  of  his 
strength  of  character  and  deep  piety  he  was  a  sort 
of  patriarch  and  untitled  king  among  his  people. 
He  prayed  at  my  request:  *'0  Lord,  we  thank 
thee  for  de  gospel  which  has  been  dispensed  wid 
on  dis  occasion,  and  which  de  people  have  listened 
to  wid  so  much  patience.  Bless  our  young  broth- 
er wid  a  big  heart  and  a  weak  voice  " — and  so  on. 
I  have  never  heard  a  more  honest  prayer,  and  in 
some  of  his  verbal  lapses  the  old  man  spoke  wiser 
than  he  knew. 

My  predecessor,  Dr.  Mason,  was  a  high-met- 
tled Christian  scholar  and  teacher,  spontaneous 
and  trenchant — a  man  of  work.  He  spoke  his 
own  thoughts  in  his  own  way.  He  was  one  of 
many  men  of  large  ability  and  deep  piety  who  gave 

(103) 


I04  Sunset  Views. 

their  service  to  the  negroes  in  those  days,  helping 
to  prepare  them  for  the  tremendous  changes  that 
were  swiftly  coming.  The  colored  Methodists  of 
the  South  had  as  good^  preaching  as  the  white 
ones  before  the  war  between  the  states.  In  fact, 
as  a  rule  they  had  the  same  preachers.  If  now 
and  then  a  weak  or  doubtful  young  brother  was 
sent  to  a  colored  charge  as  an  experiment,  the 
same  thing  was  done  with  white  charges.  It 
is  a  blessed  thing  that  slavery  is  gone.  It  is 
also  a  blessed  thing  that  before  their  emancipation 
through  the  zealous  ministry  of  the  several  Chris- 
tian denominations  in  the  South — the  Methodists 
not  the  least — the  negroes  of  that  section  had  at- 
tained the  rudiments  of  Christian  civilization  suffi- 
ciently to  make  the  transition  both'  desirable  and 
safe.  The  world's  equitable  second  thought  is  al- 
ready beginning  to  see  this.  The  Christian  peo- 
ple of  the  South  did  well  for  the  negroes,  all 
things  considered,  under  the  old  regime.  But 
their  work  for  them  is  not  all  done.  They  have  a 
duty  to  perform  in  the  present  tense — the  duty  of 
giving  them  the  gospel  in  its  fullness  of  power  and 
plenitude  of  blessing.  In  discharging  this  duty 
they  will  at  the  same  time  conserve  their  own 
highest  interest  and  the  welfare  of  the  colored 
millions  dwelling  in  their  midst.  I  am  at  the  date  of 
this  writing  (February  3,  1898)  still  glad  to  lend  a 
helping  hand  to  this  work  in  behalf  of  the  negro 
race,  and  there  is  surely  an  open  door.  This 
seems  to  me  a  good  place  to  say:  The  opportuni- 
ty waited  for  does  not  come ;  the  good  work  you 
can  do  comes  to  you  when  you  are  ready  for  duty. 


SENT  TO  SAVANNAH. 


SENT  TO  SAVANNAH. 

1WAS  "read  out"  to  Andrew  Chapel,  city  of 
Savannah,  junior  preacher,  with  William  M. 
Crumley  as  my  senior.  The  ride  on  the  rail- 
road from  Macon  to  Savannah  was  memora- 
ble to  me.  I  was  quite  a  young  man,  and  that 
day  felt  that  I  was  even  younger  than  I  looked .  The 
question  came  into  my  mind:  What  will  the  Savan- 
nah Methodists  think  when  they  see  me?  Will 
they  not  ask  themselves.  What  was  Bishop  Ca- 
pers thinking  of  when  he  appointed  such  a  boy  to 
preach  in  such  a  city  as  Savannah?  The  teippter 
rode  with  me  all  the  way — making,  as  it  now  seems 
to  me,  a  final  and  desperate  assault  on  my  faith  and 
courage  as  a  minister  of  the  gospel.  I  pictured  to 
myself  the  astonishment  and  disappointment  of  the 
good  people  when  they  saw  how  raw  a  youth  had 
been  sent  to  them  clothed  with  pastoral  author- 
ity. The  suggestion  presented  itself :  Why  not  flee 
from  such  a  trial?  Why  not  go  to  one  of  the  ho- 
tels, on  your  arrival  at  Savannah,  spend  the  night, 
and  on  the  morrow  take  passage  on  a  steamer  to 
New  York?  The  difficulties,  humiliations,  and 
trials  of  the  position  assigned  me  presented  them- 
selves to  my  mind  most  vividly  and  persistently  as 
I  swept  along  on  the  cars.  If  a  personal  devil  ever 
assaulted  a  young  preacher,  he  assaulted  me  then 
and  there.  I  had  sinister  companionship  that  was 
invisible,  but  not  unfelt,  riding  through  Georgia 
that  day  of  trial.  While  thus  agitated  by  conflict- 
ing feelings  and  distressful  thoughts,  the  train 
rolled  into  the  station — lo,  we  were  at  Savannah ! 
Before  I  had  time  even  to  look  at  my  hand-bag- 

(107) 


io8  Sunset  Views. 

gage,  several  kindly-looking  gentlemen  came  walk- 
ing through  the  cars  with  inquiring  faces.  One 
of  them  paused  as  he  looked  at  me,  and  said: 

*'We  are  looking  for  Brother  Fitzgerald,  the 
young  preacher  who  has  been  appointed  to  Sa- 
vannah— do  you  know  whether  he  is  aboard  the 
train?" 

With  a  sort  of  dazed  feeling  I  told  them  that  I 
was  the  man,  and  almost  before  I  knew  it  they 
had  me  and  my  baggage  in  a  carriage  whirling 
rapidly  along  the  streets.  The  carriage  halted, 
and  one  of  the  brethren  said: 

**  Brother  Fitzgerald,  here  we  are  at  Brother 
Stone's,  where  you  are  to  stop." 

A  motherly-looking  lady  met  me  in  the  hall,  and 
after  a  very  kindly  greeting  said:  "Come  with 
me,  and  I  will  show  you  your  room."  Leading  me 
upstairs,  I  was  shown  into  an  elegantly  furnished 
apartment.  *'This  is  your  home,"  said  the  good 
lady;  "here  you  will  stay  while  you  live  in  Savan- 
nah. Come  down  now  and  get  some  supper," 
she  added  cheerily,  leading  the  way  into  the  din- 
ing room,  where  a  nice  hot  meal  was  waiting. 

It  was  all  like  a  dream.  In  spite  of  my  previous 
misgivings  and  depression,  I  actually  began  to  feel 
comfortable.  The  mother-touch  had  reached  me. 
Blessed  be  God  for  the  women  who  have  that 
touch  !  Without  them  how  much  darker  and  cold- 
er would  be  this  world  into  which  so  much  of 
trouble  and  pain  has  somehow  found  entrance ! 
Whoso  hath  felt  true  mother-love  finds  it  easy  to 
believe  in  God's  love.  Among  the  memories  of 
my  life  that  will  not  fade  is  that  of  this  Savan- 
nah couple — Marshal  Stone  and  his  wife.  He, 
the  former  city  marshal,  was  as  soldier-like  in 
character  as  Andrew  Jackson,  whom  he  greatly 
resembled  in  personal  appearance.     A  tall,  grave- 


Sent  to  Savannah.  109 

faced  man,  with  thin  lips  and  firm-set  features,  he 
could  have  been  stern  in  his  looks  but  for  a  serene 
benignity  that  made  you  feel  that  he  was  a  strong 
man  to  trust  rather  than  a  strong  man  to  fear. 
That  was  Marshal  Stone — a  man  who  hated  all 
that  was  mean  and  loved  everybody.  His  wife 
was  the  most  spontaneous,  irrepressible,  quaint, 
outspoken,  witty,  and  practical  of  uncanonized 
saints.  She  said  the  queerest  and  did  the  kind- 
est things  all  the  time.  Even  in  her  most  sol- 
emn religious  moods  and  acts  there  was  often  a 
touch  of  humor;  her  most  humorous  sayings  and 
doings  had  often  a  tender  or  solemn  side  that  gave 
her  acquaintances  many  a  surprise.  Her  descrip- 
tive powers  were  such  that  her  narratives  and  dia- 
logues were  almost  as  vivid  as  life  itself.  This 
couple  had  no  children  of  their  own,  and  having 
ample  means  at  their  command  they  were  the  ben- 
efactors of  every  good  cause  and  the  helpers  of  all 
who  needed  help  in  Savannah.  They  belonged 
to  the  Methodist  Church,  and  gave  it  love,  la- 
bor, and  money  without  stint.  I  linger  on  their 
names,  with  a  tenderness  in  my  heart — as  well  I 
may.  They  gave  me  my  first  preacher-home,  and 
with  a  grace  and  heartiness  all  their  own  provid- 
ed for  all  rny  wants,  without  money  and  without 
price.  *'This  is  your  home,"  she  said  to  me  on 
the  night  of  my  arrival — and  she  made  it  so  in  the 
fullest  sense  of  the  word.  When  I  meet  them  in 
the  home  of  the  soul — this  is  my  undoubting  hope 
now — that  home  will  be  more  a  home  to  me  be- 
cause I  shall  see  their  kindly  faces  and  hear  their 
kindly  voices.  Many  traveling  preachers  whose 
eyes  may  fall  on  these  lines  will  echo  the  prayer: 
Father  in  heaven,  give  thy  special  grace  and 
abounding  mercy  unto  these  children  of  thine 
who  give  homes  to  thy  ministering  servants ;  grant 


no  Sunset  Views, 

that  their  dwellings  here  may  be  blessed  with  thy 
continual  benediction,  and  that  they  may  reach 
that  home  above  where  the  family  of  God  shall 
live  together  with  him  in  whose  presence  there  is 
fullness  of  joy,  and  at  whose  right  hand  there  are 
pleasures  for  evermore.     Amen, 


SAVANNAH.! 


SAVANNAH. 

THE  Savannah  of  1854  was  unique  in  its 
blending  of  simplicit}^  and  repose  with  a 
polish  and  sparkle  in  its  social  life  that 
gave  its  old  denizens  the  undoubting  con- 
viction that  it  was  the  best  place  on  earth, 
and  made  it  easy  for  a  new-comer  to  fall  in  love 
with  the  place.  The  old  Southern  tone  was  dom- 
inant, but  there  was  an  infusion  of  Northerners 
sufficient  to  give  somewhat  of  the  briskness  and 
breeziness  that  are  found  wherever  Yankees  are 
found  in  all  latitudes  of  earth.  The  rule  in  that 
day  was,  that  the  Yankee  who  came  South  to  stay 
did  so  because  he  had  an  affinity  for  the  people 
and  fondness  for  the  climate.  What  fire-eaters 
were  many  of  them  in  politics  !  What  sticklers  for 
**  strict  construction,"  and  all  that  sort  of  thing! 
The  peripatetic  Northern  travelers  who  came  on  a 
visit  to  make  trade,  or  for  professional  letter-writ- 
ing for  the  newspapers,  were  of  different  types, 
and  had  a  different  standing.  Believing  that  these 
visitors  were  looking  for  the  seamy  side  of  South- 
ern society,  that  was  the  side  shown  to  them.  *'I 
am  a  truer  Southerner  than  you  are,"  once  said  a 
lawyer  from  Connecticut  to  me ;  *'  you  are  a  South- 
ern man  by  birth,  I  by  choice."  The  rule  worked 
both  ways :  there  were  Southern-born  men  that  ex- 
hibited every  peculiarity  that  made  the  word ''Yan- 
kee "  synonymous  with  everything  that  a  brave, 
generous  soul  dislikes.  Sectionalism  was  then  ab- 
surd, unjust,  and  hurtful,  disgusting  in  its  grosser 
forms.  Neither  the  North  nor  the  South  had  a 
monopoly  of  that  or  of  any  other  silliness  or  mean- 
8  ("3) 


114  Siuisct  Views. 

ness.  When  the  war  between  the  slates  came, 
these  Northern-born  Southerners  were  among  the 
first  to  go  to  the  front,  and  they  spilled  their  blood 
freely  for  the  cause  of  the  South.  Abraham  Lin- 
coln and  George  H.  Thomas  were  both  Southern- 
born  men  who  are  canonized  as  political  saints  in 
the  calendar  of  the  North.  Admiral  Farragut 
was  also  a  Southerner  by  birth.  The  accident  of 
birth  means  nothing  as  to  ingrain  quality.  The 
sectionalist  in  the  broad,  vulgar  sense  of  the  word 
has  been  a  nuisance  in  both  sections  of  our  coun- 
try. He  may  be  tracked  by  the  marks  of  blood 
and  fire.  A  sectionalist  in  this  evil  and  narrow 
sense  of  the  word  is  an  anachronism  in  these 
United  States  in  this  year  of  our  Lord  1898.  He 
is  lonesome,  and  soliloquizes  mostly  when  he  sa3^s 
anything  in  his  own  bad  way. 

But  I  am  digressing,  and  will  come  back  to  Sa- 
vannah, anle  bellum.  Dreamy,  delightful,  seduc- 
tive old  Savannah !  I  have  not  seen  it  for  more 
than  forty  years,  but  the  memory  of  it  is  fresh  and 
sweet  and  sacred.  If  I  were  a  poet,  I  would  put 
its  Bonaventure  Cemetery  into  verse.  It  is  itself 
a  poem.  There  is  nothing  just  like  it  elsewhere: 
the  live-oak  avenues,  draped  with  the  long  sea- 
moss,  gently  stirred  by  the  soft  breeze;  a  sky  that 
bends  in  deepest  blue  above,  with  no  sound  to 
break  the  stillness  save  the  faint  note  of  a  song 
bird  in  the  minor  key,  or  the  whisper  of  a  breeze 
like  **  the  sighing  of  broken  reeds"  that  sym- 
bolizes that  of  breaking  hearts.  Sidney  Lanier 
might  have  sung  the  song  of  Bonaventure  had  he 
seen  it  as  I  have  seen  it.  The  elegance  of  the  cit}^ 
and  the  heartiness  of  the  country  met  you  in  the  old 
Savannah  in  a  way  that  gave  you  wonder  and  de- 
light. The  gentlemen  of  the  old  school  were  so 
gentlemanly  in  their  own  lofty,  easy-going  way; 


Savannah.  115 

the  women  of  the  old  school  were  so  ladylike  in 
their  own  gracious,  queenly  way;  the  tradesmen 
were  so  urbane  and  so  neighborly,  rather  than  sharp 
and  shoplike;  the  old  negroes  were  so  grand,  and 
the  young  negroes  were  so  jolly,  in  the  old  Savan- 
nah, that  whoso  once  tasted  the  flavor  of  its  life 
never  lost  its  charm.  And  its  religious  life  was  of 
a  type  all  its  own.  The  Baptists  were  numerous 
and  zealous,  both  among  the  white  people  and  the 
negroes.  The  negro  Baptists  were  led  by  Andrew 
Marshall,  a  black  apostle  whose  word  was  law 
among  them,  and  whose  life  was  patterned  after 
that  of  his  Lord.  The  Roman  Catholics  were  Ro- 
manists naturalized,  liberalized,  and  largely  evan- 
gelized by  their  Georgia  environment.  The  Pres- 
byterians were  as  solid  as  if  molded  in  Geneva, 
and  as  sunny  as  a  Georgia  landscape  in  a  clear  Oc- 
tober day.  The  Episcopalians  were  a  people  who 
had  scholars  in  theirpulpits ;  whose  high-churchism 
was  not  noisy;  whose  traditions  were  comforting 
to  themselves,  but  not  obtrusive;  whose  social  life 
was  for  the  most  part  very  sweet.  Their  Bishop 
Elliott  was  a  colossal  and  aesthetic  giant,  gor- 
geous-looking in  his  episcopal  robes ;  a  man  who 
knew  botany  and  theology,  who  held  to  the  tactual 
succession  in  the  ministry,  and  was  a  judge  of  good 
painting  and  good  eating.  And  the  Methodists — 
the  stirring,  wide-awake,  militant,  moving,  musical 
Methodists  of  Savannah — they  went  everywhere, 
and  had  a  hand  in  everything  good  that  was  go- 
ing on,  now  and  then  making  a  tangent  under  a 
sudden  impulse  or  inspiration.  The  presiding 
elder  was  John  W.  Glenn,  who  personally  looked 
like  the  pictures  of  Martin  Luther — sturdy,  thick- 
set, heavy-jawed,  large-brained,  firm  of  lip,  with  a 
gleam  in  his  eye  that  was  martial  or  tender  as  oc- 
casion demanded.     I  have  seen  him  walk  the  floor 


ii6  Sunset  Views. 

like  a  caged  lion,  chafing  over  follies  that  he  saw 
but  could  not  abate  in  ecclesiastical  administra- 
tion; again,  I  have  seen  him  the  center  of  a  social 
circle  where  good  fellowship  reached  the  high- 
water  mark;  and  again,  and  yet  again,  I  have  seen 
him  in  the  pulpit,  the  incarnation  of  ministerial  fidel- 
ity, pleading  with  sinners  with  melting  tenderness, 
expostulating  with  backsliders  with  awful  earnest- 
ness, or  calling  believers  up  to  the  heights  of  ho- 
liness where  the  sun  shines  night  and  day.  He 
knew  the  blessed  paradox  expressed  in  that  last 
clause  of  the  foregoing  sentence — in  the  night  of 
sorrow  and  pain  as  in  the  sunshine  of  gladness 
alike,  he  walked  in  the  light  of  the  Lord.  And  my 
senior  was  William  M.  Crumley,  a  low- voiced, 
slow-moving,  magnetic  man,  whose  persuasions 
brought  multitudes  of  souls  to  the  pitying  Christ, 
whose  prayers  at  the  bedside  of  the  sick  and  in  the 
chambers  death-darkened  made  a  channel  for  the 
stream  of  heavenly  peace  and  comfort  to  souls  that 
were  burdened  and  hearts  that  were  broken.  Dur- 
ing the  epidemic  visitation  of  yellow  fever — that 
oft-recurring  scourge  of  scourges  of  our  South  At- 
lantic seaports — sectarian  lines  were  obliterated: 
Crumley,  who  stayed  at  his  post  of  duty,  was  the 
pastor  of  all  classes,  rich  and  poor  alike;  and  when 
it  was  over,  his  name  was  tenderly  spoken  by  thou- 
sands in  the  homes  of  the  smitten  city.  The  Chris- 
tian heroism  developed  during  these  awful  visita- 
tions illustrates  a  compensatory  law  of  God :  they 
leave  the  stricken  communities  sorrowful  and  pov- 
erty-smitten, but  richer  in  all  that  is  precious  in 
Christian  civilization  and  ennobling  in  human 
character. 


TO  CALIFORNIA. 


TO  CALIFORNIA. 

FROM  Savannah  I  was  called  to  go  to  Cali- 
fornia by  the  fatherly  and  apostolic  Bishop 
James  O.  Andrew.  That  such  a  man  as 
he  should  become  the  center  of  a  fierce 
-sectional  struggle,  is  one  of  the  strange 
things  that  now  and  then  take  place  in  this  strange 
world.  I  will  not  even  briefly  rehearse  that  story 
here.  We  have  already  had  too  much  of  it.  Let 
us  not  dig  up  any  buried  quarrels,  but  rather  scat- 
ter every  seed  of  love  that  we  can  gather  from  the 
past.  The  dear  old  bishop  made  the  call,  and  I 
obeyed.  My  sturdy  and  strong-willed  presiding 
elder,  John  W.  Glenn,  in  what  he  felt  to  be  right- 
eous wrath,  paced  the  floor  and  stormed  against 
my  going.  But  I  went  under  a  strong  persuasion 
of  duty.  Savannah  gave  me  a  motherly  fare- 
well. My  pen  lingers  on  the  page  as  the  image  of 
one  woman  comes  up  before  my  mind — that  of 
Mvs.  Marshal  Stone,  who  had  given  me  a  home 
and  almost  a  mother's  love.  Her  thoughtfulness 
in  my  behalf  blessed  every  step  of  the  journey  and 
made  itself  felt  long  afterwards.  It  was  of  the  sort 
that  forgets  nothing  and  grudges  nothingin  doing  a 
kindness.  I  started  on  my  journey  with  her  kiss 
and  her  tears  upon  my  face.  And  what  a  journey 
it  was !  Its  first  episode  was  one  never  to  be  for- 
gotten— one  to  be  thankful  for  forever.  At  Enon, 
Alabama,  a  quiet  little  village  on  Chunnenuggee 
Ridge  among  the  pines,  I  took  a  companion  for 
my  California  trip,  and  for  life — and  she  has  been 
my  good  angel  from  that  hour  to  this.  We  started 
five  minutes    after  the  ceremony  that  united  our 

("9) 


I20  Sunset  Views.  * 

lives.  She  sits  on  my  left,  sewing,  as  I  write  this 
by  lamplight  on  the  evening  of  March  23,  1898 — 
God  bless  her! 

At  New  Orleans  we  spent  a  few  days,  includ- 
ing a  Sunday.  It  was  then  a  gay  metropolis, 
Frenchy  in  its  glitter.  Southern  in  its  glow.  Its 
brunette  beauties  shaded  off  into  octoroons  with 
rounded  forms  and  laughing  faces,  deepening 
into  the  honest,  solid  blackness  of  the  genuine 
negroes,  who  kept  in  Louisiana  the  complex- 
ion and  the  jollity  they  brought  with  them  from 
the  Congo.  It  was  a  jolly  city  in  that  day,  unlike 
any  other  American  city.  The  Picayune  of  that 
date  was  one  of  the  unique  newspapers  that  had  a 
flavor  and  a  field  all  its  own,  with  a  touch  of  indig- 
enous literature  in  its  columns  and  a  bonhomie 
that  gave  it  a  national  good  will.  Sunday  was 
mostly  a  French  Sunday — that  is  to  say,  it  had  much 
frolic  and  some  religious  worship.  Here  I  met  for 
the  first  time  McTyeire  and  Keener,  afterwards 
made  bishops.  McTyeire  was  editing  the  JVew 
Orleans  Christian  Advocate,  and  winning  his  spurs 
as  a  thinker,  writer,  and  leader  in  the  Church. 
The  questions  he  asked  me,  and  the  things  he  said 
to  me,  went  straight  to  the  mark,  and  made  me 
feel  that  I  had  met  a  man  who  was  a  mind-reader, 
and  who  knew  all  that  was  going  on.  Keener 
was  a  presiding  elder,  whose  quaintly  classic  and 
incisive  sayings  and  heroic  methods  were  much 
talked  of  even  then.  **  Yes,  he's  a  Keener,  sure 
enough  !"  said  an  admirer,  with  a  chuckle,  quoting 
one  of  his  sharp  sayings.  These  two  men  strong- 
ly impressed  the  young  preacher  who  has  always 
found  a  fascination  in  the  study  of  men.  To  this 
day  I  have  not  forgotten  the  preaching  of  Dr.  J. 
B.  Walker  at  the  Carondelet  Methodist  Church 
on    Sunday.     A    small,    well-knit,    dark-skinned, 


To  California.  I2i 

black-haired,  heavy-whiskered  man,  with  brilliant 
black  eyes,  with  a  fluency  that  was  almost  miracu- 
lous in  its  rapidity,  with  a  rhetoric  that  was  ring- 
ing and  an  enunciation  that  was  as  clear  as  it  was 
quick,  he  preached  for  about  thirty  minutes — it 
seemed  less  to  me — and  quit  when  in  full  motion, 
leaving,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  everybody  wishing  he 
would  go  on.  A  Gulf  breeze  was  not  fresher  than 
his  thought;  his  manner  was  as  graceful  as  the 
movement  of  a  clipper-ship  under  full  sail.  Years 
afterwards  I  made  an  earnest  effort  to  bring  Dr. 
Walker  to  San  Francisco,  believing  that  if  any 
man  could  get  a  hearing  for  Southern  Methodism 
in  that  city,  he  was  the  man.  But  who  knows?  He 
might  have  met  there  his  pulpit  Waterloo,  as  not 
a  few  other  notabilities  have  done  in  that  city,  which 
has  its  own  climate  and  its  ow^n  way  of  think- 
ing, speaking,  and  doing  on  all  lines  of  thought, 
speech,  and  action. 

Linus  Parker  was  then  a  young  preacher  in 
New  Orleans,  and  had  begun  to  attract  atten- 
tion and  admiration  by  writing  articles  for  the 
press  that  were  out  of  the  usual  style — original 
in  thought,  with  subtle  touches  of  insight  and 
flashes  of  beauty  that  made  the  reader  stop,  re- 
read, and  linger  wdth  delight  over  his  charming 
page.  He  was  elected  to  the  office  of  bishop  in 
1882.  Overwhelmed  with  the  weight  of  the  re- 
sponsibility thus  incurred,  he  grasped  my  hand 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  said:  **  My  brethren 
have  made  a  mistake;  I  am  not  suited  to  the 
place."  Sweet-souled,  finely-tuned  Linus  Par- 
ker! His  humility  was  equal  to  his  genius.  His 
course  as  a  bishop  of  the  Church  was  quickly 
run.     As  ointment  poured  forth  is  his  name. 

A  lively  time  we  had  in  Nicaragua,  en  route  to 
California.     It  was  just  after  Walker's  first  filibus- 


122  Stmset  Views. 

ter  raid.  The  Nicaraguans  naturally  regarded  all 
North  Americans  with  suspicion  and  dislike.  They 
were  sulky,  and  we  were  watchful.  At  the  "  Half- 
way House,"  between  the  head  of  the  lake  and 
San  Juan  del  Sur,  on  the  Pacific  coast  side,  we  had 
a  night  adventure  that  was  somewhat  exciting. 
About  six  hundred  native  Nicaraguan  soldiers  had 
gathered  there  to  meet  Filibuster  Walker,  should 
he  come  again.  There  w^ere  about  ninety  of  us 
North  Americans.  An  enterprising  agent  of  the 
evil  one  had  opened  a  bar  for  the  sale  of  liquor 
in  a  thatched  shanty  near  by.  Men  of  both 
parties  drank  freely.  A  half-drunken  Ameri- 
can and  a  half-drunken  "Greaser"  came  to 
high  words,  and  at  length  our  man  slapped  the 
face  of  the  other,  with  an  oath.  Instantly  there 
was  a  clamor  in  angry,  broken  Spanish,  as  the 
Nicaraguans  leveled  their  six  hundred  muskets  at 
us.  Almost  as  quickly,  our  men  drew  their  re- 
volvers, and  stood  ready.  It  promised  to  be  a 
lively  and  not  altogether  unequal  fight — six  hun- 
dred tawny  natives  armed  with  old  flintlock  mus- 
kets, on  the  one  side,  and  ninety  North  Americans 
armed  with  their  deadly  quick-shooting  revolvers, 
on  the  other.  It  was  a  critical  situation — the  pull- 
ing of  a  single  trigger  on  either  side  would  have 
made  bloody  work.  I  was  in  the  front  of  our  par- 
ty, mounted  on  a  mule,  unarmed,  perfectly  sober, 
but  somewhat  anxious.  The  women  of  our  party 
w^ere  seated  in  wagons,  the  rest  of  our  men,  like 
myself,  being  mounted  on  mules  ready  to  start. 
Acting  upon  an  impulse,  advancing  a  few  steps  to 
get  in  sight  and  hearing  of  both  parties,  I  lifted 
my  hat  and  said: 

"  Gentlemen,  I  have  witnessed  this  whole  diffi- 
culty from  the  first.  This  fellow" — pointing  as  I 
spoke  to  the  man  who  had  assaulted  the  Nicaraguan 


To  California.  123 

— ''is  mostly  blamable  for  all  the  trouble.  He  is 
the  aggressor,  and  is  a  disgrace  to  the  American 
name." 

Amid  approving  grunts  from  the  Nicaraguans 
our  half-drunken  American  began  an  interruption, 
when  a  tall  Pennsylvanian  of  our  party,  who  spoke 
Spanish  and  had  acted  as  my  interpreter,  turned 
quickly  upon  him  and,  placing  the  muzzle  of  his 
revolver  within  an  inch  or  so  of  his  head,  said 
sternly : 

*'Hush,  you  scoundrel!  If  you  speak  another 
word,  I  will  blow  your  head  off." 

The  ruffian  did  not  speak  again;  he  saw  the 
flash  in  the  tall  Pennsylvanian's  eye  and  caught 
the  ring  of  decision  in  his  voice.  (When  I  put  in 
this  parenthesis  the  statement  that  this  Pennsyl- 
vanian was  Captain  James  McLean,  many  old  Cali- 
fornians  will  recognize  him  as  the  popular  *'Jim" 
McLean  who  was  so  well^  known  in  the  southern 
mines — as  brave  a  man  as  ever  wore  a  soldier's 
uniform.  He  had  won  distinction  and  his  title  in 
the  Mexican  war. ) 

Seeing  my  opportunity,  I  said:  "  Gentlemen, 
let  this  fellow  stay  here  and  drink  and  quarrel  and 
fight  if  he  wishes  to  do  so,  but  let  us  go  on  our 
journey,  and  take  care  of  these  women  who' are  un- 
der our  protection.  All  in  favor  of  so  doing  say. 
Aye." 

Every  man  save  one  shouted,  "Aye!"  The 
right  chord  had  been  struck — no  American  wor- 
thy of  the  name  ever  fails  to  respond  when  ap- 
pealed to  in  behalf  of  woman.  We  are  a  gallant 
people,  though  not  always  entirely  consistent  in 
dealing  with  women  and  the  woman  question — 
so  called.  There  is  not  much  of  a  ''question" 
about  it  where  the  Bible  and  a  true  manhood, 
rather  than  whisky  and  infidelity,  decide. 


124  Sunset  Views. 

*'A11  right,  here  we  go!"  I  shouted,  putting 
the  spur  to  my  Httle  mule ;  and  away  we  went  un- 
der the  tropical  stars,  our  men  giving  **  Three 
cheers  for  the  women!"  as  we  started.  It  was 
an  exhilarating  gallop  of  fourteen  miles ;  and  when 
the  steamer's  lights  at  San  Juan  del  Sur  came  in 
sight,  how  we  shouted  !  That  was  my  first  glance 
at  the  world's  great  ocean — the  Pacific,  so  called 
— and  it  was  a  glad  sight  as  matters  stood  with  us 
that  night. 


ON  THE  PACIFIC  SIDE. 


ON  THE   PACIFIC  SIDE. 

ON  the  Pacific  side — so  this  chapter  is 
headed.  But  it  was  a  misnomer  as  we 
found  it.  In  the  Gulf  of  Tehuantepec 
the  storm  on  the  sea  was  startling  to  a 
landsman  ;  even  the  oldest  sailors  looked 
anxious  as  the  stanch  ship  rolled  and  tossed  on  the 
billows,  the  wind  blowing  a  heavier  gale  than  I 
had  ever  seen  before.  One  of  the  sailors — a  ro- 
bust, friendly-faced  Irishman — gave  me  a  piece  of 
wisdom  that  I  have  not  forgotten.  Meeting  him 
on  the  guards  of  the  vessel  about  twilight,  the  sea 
rolling  heavily,  the  wind  whistling,  and  the  ship 
pitching  fearfully,  I  asked  him  : 

"What  sort  of  weather  will  we  have  to-night?" 
"I'll  tell  you  in  the  morning,"  he  answered, 
looking  at  the  sky,  his  eye  twinkling  as  he  spoke. 
He  was  an  old  sailor.  He  had  learned  the  lesson 
that  comes  to  most  men  who  live  long  in  this  world 
— this  lesson,  namely,  that  it  is  safer  to  prophesy 
after,  rather  than  before,  the  event.  A  hasty  or 
passionate  prediction  commits  him  who  makes  it 
to  an  irrational  and  obstinate  effort  to  bring  the 
thing  to  pass.  The  storms  of  life  cannot  be  pre- 
dicted in  advance ;  the  mystery  of  life  cannot  be 
understood  now.  We  will  be  told  in  the  morn- 
ing. That  glad  morning  will  come — the  morning 
that  will  be  followed  by  no  night  of  darkness  and 
storm.  For  it  we  must  wait.  For  it  we  can  wait 
without  mistrust  or  impatience,  knowing  that  in 
every  crisis  we  may  look  for  the  One  mighty  to 
save  to  come  to  us  walking  upon  the  sea.  No 
night  is  too  dark,  no  sea  too  rough,  to  keep  him 
from  coming  when  we  need  his  help  and  comfort. 

(127) 


128  Sunset  Views, 

On  the  Pacific  side,  did  I  say?  Those  early 
years  of  California  history  had  in  them  but  little 
that  was  pacific.  What  a  transition  for  me  from 
Georgia  to  California,  from  dreamy,  even-going 
old  Savannah  to  the  newness  and  rush  and  roar 
of  San  Francisco  I  Th«  first  thing  that  impressed 
me  was  that  everything  and  everybody  seemed  to 
be  unsettled.  The  spirit  of  1849  ^^^  ^^^^^  ^^  ^^ 
air  in  1855.  Each  person  seemed  to  be  ready  for 
'*a  strike"  of  some  sort — to  make  a  strike,  or  to 
be  struck.  Scarcely  any  one  seemed  to  have  any 
fixed  plans  or  expectations.  The  pulse  of  Cali- 
fornia beat  fast  and  strong,  but  irregularly.  It  all 
seemed  very  strange  to  me,  and  it  had  a  sort  of 
charm  that  was  indefinable.  There  was  a  morbid 
element  in  that  early  life  in  California,  and  it  in- 
duced habits  of  thought  and  action  that  became 
chronic  with  many.  Once  a  Californian,  always 
a  Californian,  in  this  sense.  The  gambling  ele- 
ment— the  disposition  to  take  chances  for  the  big 
things  and  the  little  things  that  were  to  be  gained 
or  lost  in  the  turn  of  life's  wheel  of  fortune — was 
everywhere  pervasive. 

Bishop  Andrew  presided  at  the  session'  of  the 
Pacific  Conference  held  at  Sacramento  City,  April, 
1855.  That  fatherly  and  apostolic  saint  had  an 
heroic  vein  that  ran  all  through  him.  When  told 
that  there  was  an  impression  prevailing  in  some 
quarters  that  his  mission  to  California  was  to  wind 
up  the  Southern  Methodist  Conference  and  aban- 
don that  field,  he  said,  "If  that  is  what  is  want- 
ed, they  sent  the  wrong  man"  ;  and  as  he  said  it 
there  was  a  compression  of  the  lips  and  a  flash  in 
his  eye  that  bespoke  a  true  chief  of  the  militant 
Church.  Martyr  metal  was  in  him:  for  a  princi- 
ple he  would  have  died  as  a  matter  of  course  with- 
out flourish  and  without  fear.     He  was  not  in  the 


On  the  Pacific  Side,  129 

least  melodramatic.  His  wife  was  with  him — and 
the  echoes  of  her  voice  are  still  heard  and  the  fra- 
grance of  her  presence  still  lingers  there.  Her 
face  was  an  evangel.  She  was  the  Methodist  Ma- 
donna while  she  was  among  the  Californians.  A 
woman  came  to  see  her  one  day  while  she  and  the 
bishop  were  wdth  us  in  Sonora,  the  mining  town 
where  I  did  my  first  preaching  in  California.  This 
woman  had  a  history;  she  had  then  two  husbands 
living  in  the  same  town,  and  a  third  elsewhere. 
She  was  passionate,  impulsive,  fierce  in  one  mood, 
and  pitiful  and  generous  almost  beyond  belief  in  an- 
other. She  came  to  bring  some  little  token  of  good 
will  to  the  parsonage — if  that  one-roomed  board 
shanty  on  the  steep  red  hillside  may  be  so  called — 
and  there  she  met  and  was  introduced  to  our  Ma- 
donna. Lingering,  she  sat  and  gazed  upon  the  face 
so  restful  and  benignant,  so  gentle  and  so  holy  in 
its  expression — and  sudden]}^,  with  a  gush  of  irre- 
pressible emotion,  she  rushed  across  the  room, 
dropped  on  her  knees,  hid  her  face  in  her  lap,  and 
sobbed,  '*  Mother!"  This  woman  had  been  a 
sinner  and  had  been  much  sinned  against,  and 
doubtless  had  longed  for  the  mother-love  which  is 
so  like  the  love  of  God.  If  that  woman  was  not 
converted  by  that  look,  she  was  comforted,  and 
must  have  had  at  least  a  momentary  glimpse  of 
that  love  divine  which  is  the  fountain  of  all  the 
true  love  that  blesses  this  world. 

My  first  two  years  in  California  were  spent  in 
the  Southern  Mines,  Sonora  being  my  station — 
with  Shaw's  Flat,  Columbia,  Brown's  Flat^  Whis- 
ky Hill,  Yankee  Jim's,  Mormon  Creek,  Chinese 
Camp,  Jamestown,  Poverty  Flat,  Woods's  Creek, 
Jackass  Gulch,  and  some  other  minor  mining 
camp,  as  my  parish.  Gold  dust,  whisky,  gam- 
bling, fighting,  shooting,  and  other  things  of  the 


130  Sunset  Viezus, 

sort,  made  life  lively.  The  first  four  funerals  that 
I  attended  told  the  story  of  life  at  the  time  in  the 
mines  of  California — two  of  them  were  suicides,, 
and  the  other  two  had  been  murdered.  "  Bang! 
bang!  bang!"  we  would  hear  the  rapid  succes- 
sion of  pistol  shots  in  the  Long  Tom  saloon  in  the 
dead  of  the  night.  "■  Somebody  is  killed,"  we 
thought,  or  said;  and  the  next  morning  I  would 
be  called  on  to  perform  the  funeral  rites  of  the 
Church  over  the  dead  body  of  some  poor  fellow 
who  had  been  shot  down  in  that  far-famed  resort. 
It  was  run  by  old  Ben  Aspinwall — a  huge-framed, 
adipose  giant,  who  regarded  such  tragedies  as  a 
matter  of  course;  who  never  became  excited,  tak- 
ing things  as  they  came;  a  strange  old  sinner,  who 
would  take  the  last  dollar  from  a  miner  who  bet 
against  his  faro-bank  and  as  readily  count  out  his 
twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  to  help  in  burying  the 
dead  or  in  charity  to  the  living.  I  mention  his 
name  here  with  only  a  kindly  feeling;  the  old  gam- 
bler has  for  many  long  years  been  in  some  other 
world  than  this ;  this  posthumous  mention  will  do 
him  no  hurt.  He  was  a  typical  man  of  his  class, 
only  bigger  in  body,  of  steadier  nerve,  and  freer 
of  hand  than  others.  All  my  life  I  have  heard  of 
the  proverbial  generosity  of  professional  gamblers. 
Is  it  true  that  they  are  notable  for  their  generosity? 
And  if  so,  what  is  the  secret  of  it?  The  old 
proverb,  "  Come  easy,  go  easy,"  might  explain 
it  to  some  minds.  But  it  occurs  to  me  that  the  ex- 
planation may  be  found  in  the  devil's  casuistry 
suggested  to  a  gambler's  soul  that  if  he  will  divide 
what  he  wrongfully  takes  from  one  rnan  with  an- 
other man  who  is  needy,  he  will  thus  condone  for 
his  sin,  and  get  a  credit  mark  in  his  book  of  life 
which  must  be  balanced  at  last.  The  devil  always 
has  a  lie  ready  for  all  who  will  listen  to  him. 


On  the  Pacific  Side.  131 

The  life  of  California  at  that  day  was  mostly 
young  life.  Young  men  ruled  and  rioted  after 
their  fashion.  They  were  strong,  passionate, 
credulous.  Their  sins  were  the  sins  of  inexperi- 
ence and  passion  in  a  new  country.  Their  virtues 
were  courage  and  hopefulness.  They  feared  not 
God,  man,  or  devil.  They  persuaded  themselves 
that  they  were  the  starters  of  a  new  era  of  some 
sort  in  their  new  western  world.  They  scoffed 
at  the  wisdom  of  the  past,  invented  a  slang  all  their 
own,  and  extemporized  a  moral  code  for  them- 
selves, conspicuously  slighting  several  of  the  ten 
commandments.  They  struck  out  at  a  wild  pace 
for  an  unknown  goal.  Mark  Twain  and  Bret 
Harte  have  painted  them  to  the  life  as  far  as  they 
went.  The  names  of  the  public  men  of  California 
who  died  by  the  bullet  or  the  bottle  would  make  a 
long  roll;  but  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  call  these 
men  back  from  the  mystery  and  sanctity  of  death. 
The  splendid  manhood  thus  eclipsed  makes  as  sad 
a  chapter  in  real  life  as  has  been  enacted  on  this 
planet. 


CALIFORNIA  AS  WE  FOUND  IT. 


CALIFORNIA  AS  WE   FOUND   IT. 

THE  Spaniards  and  the  Roman  Catholics 
had  long  held  possession  of  California;  but 
manifest  destiny  was  against  their  owner- 
ship and  rulership.  Republicanism  and 
Protestantism  were  bound  to  supplant  and 
succeed  Imperialism  and  Romanism  in  Califor- 
nia. That  Romanism  was  a  singular  compound  of 
strength  and  weakness.  It  was  saintly  and  sinful. 
It  was  heroic,  and  it  was  evasive  and  illusive. 
Grand  religious  ideals  and  shameful  worldly  pol- 
icies were  blended  in  a  way  that  excited  mingled 
admiration  and  execration  in  ingenuous  souls.  The 
heroic  and  the  saintly  age  of  Spanish  evangelization 
and  conquest  has  registered  itself  in  the  very  no- 
menclature of  California,  from  San  Francisco  Bay 
to  San  Diego.  What  a  saintly  country  in  name! 
But  what  a  devilish  history!  It  is  a  mixture,  and 
an  evil  mixture — the  Church  and  the  State.  The 
kingdom  of  heaven  and  the  kingdom  of  this  world 
—  God  and  mammon — left  their  marks.  The  Jes- 
uit fathers  were  of  two  sorts — the  devotees  who  be- 
lieved with  all  their  hearts,  and  the  diplomats  who 
schemed  with  all  their  cunning;  the  propagandists 
of  the  faith,  and  the  tools  of  the  Spanish  political 
conquest.  The  writer  who  ignores  the  one  or  the 
other  of  these  elements,  in  his  estimates  of  the 
forces  that  operated  in  the  Spanish  settlements  of 
America,  will  give  a  narrow,  one-sided,  and  mis- 
leading statement. 

The  ''Society  of  Jesus"  on  its  religious  side 
exhibited  much  that  was  worthy  of  its  name — self- 
sacrifice,  courage,  consecration,  enthusiasm,  that 
dared  danger  and  death  for  love  of  their  Lord  and 
love  of  souls.     On  its  other  and  darker  side,  its 

('35) 


136  Sunset  Views. 

human  side,  it  reflected  the  meanest,  darkest,  foul- 
est, cruelest  phases  of  the  corrupt  and  bloody  po- 
litical governments  of  that  time.  The  review  of 
this  history  should  burn  into  our  souls  the  truth 
taught  us  by  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  himself,  that 
his  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world.  The  union  of 
Church  and  State  is  an  unnatural  union.  It  dis- 
organizes the  State  and  corrupts  the  Church.  The 
history  of  the  world  has  furnished  no  exception 
to  the  truth  of  this  statement.  The  disorgani- 
zation on  the  one  hand,  and  the  corruption  on 
the  other,  have  been  measured  by  the  extent  to 
which  this  mesalliance  has  been  carried.  The 
abolition  of  the  temporal  power  of  the  papacy  did 
not  come  a  day  too  soon  for  all  concerned.  The 
Methodist  movement  in  Great  Britain  saved  Prot- 
estant Christianity  from  the  ruin  with  which  it  was 
threatened  by  its  alliance  with  the  State.  The 
Greek  Church  has  this  fatal  flaw.  Lutheranism 
also  has  it.  This  Roman  leaven  must  be  cast  out — : 
and  it  will  be.  The  unification  of  the  Church  will 
come  by  the  separation  from  the  State  of  all  its 
branches,  and  their*  streams  flowing  into  the  one 
sea  of  love  whose  tides  shall  sweep  away  all  di- 
visions among  the  followers  of  the  divine,  risen, 
reigning  Christ. 

In  California  I  knew  men  and  women  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church  whose  nobility  and  sweet- 
ness of  Christian  character  equaled  the  best  among 
the  multitudes  of  the  noble  and  the  good  I  have 
known  among  Protestants.  If  I  get  to  heaven 
and  fail  to  meet  them  there,  it  will  be  a  great  sur- 
prise and  disappointment  to  me.  I  love  all  alike 
who  truly  bear  the  image  of  my  Lord.  My  wish 
and  prayer  for  the  elimination  of  all  bigotry  and 
exclusiveness  arise  not  from  any  lack  of  love  for 
those  from  whom  I  am  separated.     It  is  because  I 


California  as  We  Found  It,  137 

do  love  them  that  I  want  the  barbed  wire  fences 
removed. 

The  Sunday  bull  fight  was  a  California  insti- 
tution long  after  I  became  a  citizen  of  the  state. 
I  never  saw  one — and  never  wanted  to.  Its  bru- 
tality ought  to  have  disgusted  even  the  Digger  In- 
dians. It  has  often  been  described  as  a  cowardly 
sport,  but  the  man  who  could  thus  take  the  chances 
of  impalement  or  of  being  ripped  up  by  a  tortured 
animal,  and  brave  the  righteous  wrath  of  a  mercy- 
loving  God,  exhibited  a  quality  that  was  not  heroic 
in  any  honorable  sense  of  the  word,  but  had  in  it 
a  cruelty  that  was  devilishly  daring.  A  bull  fight 
on  a  religious  holiday  tells  the  story  of  the  Cali- 
fornia of  that  curious  Spanish  semi-civilization, 
with  one  part  of  Christian  faith  and  many  parts 
of  many  things  utterly  unlike  it.  The  roots  of 
that  one  thing  that  was  good  will  remain;  the 
evils,  having  in  themselves  the  germs  of  dissolu- 
tion because  they  are  evils,  will  pass  away.  The 
bull  fight  will  be  read  of  in  a  future  age  with  dis- 
gust mingled  with  incredulity;  the  religious  holi- 
day will  be  more  and  more  what  its  name  implies 
to  the  devout  and  cultured  mind.  To  the  credit  of 
their  religious  teachers  let  it  be  said  that  the  early 
Californians  had  the  sentiment  of  reverence  left  in 
their  souls.  At  the  same  time  truth  compels  the 
admission  that  they  were  very  weak  and  low  in 
practical  morality.  The  first  gold-seekers  did  not 
make  things  better.  Many  of  them  left  their 
regard  for  the  ten  commandments  behind  them 
when  they  started  to  the  gold  fields.  When  a  new- 
comer expressed  astonishment  or  indignation  at  the 
grosser  exhibitions  of  vice,  **  You  forget  that  you 
are  in  California,"  an  earlier  immigrant  would  say 
with  a  smile  of  pity  on  his  face.  The  multitude 
were  doing  evil,  and  it  was  easy  to  run  with  them. 


THOSE  EARLY  CALIFORNIANS. 


THOSE   EARLY  CALIFORNIANS. 

THOUGH  I  was  in  California  twenty-three 
years,  my  surprise  never  wore  off.  The 
natural  features  of  the  country  itself,  its 
seasons,  its  productions,  its  institutions, 
its  people,  were  new  at  the  start,  and  gave 
fresh  surprises  to  the  last.  The  life  was  so  pecul- 
iar and  so  intense  that  a  new-comer  was  quickly 
naturalized  if  he  could  only  speak  any  sort  of  Eng- 
lish. Many  sorts  of  English  were  spoken,  from  the 
best  to  the  worst.  The  precise  and  pedantic  Eng- 
lish of  the  educated  NewEnglander,and  the  nasal 
drawl  and  verbal  sinuosities  and  queer  provincial- 
isms of  the  unlettered  or  partially  educated  NewEn- 
glander;  the  elegant  diction  of  the  most  cultured 
Southerner,  the  ludicrous  imitations  of  a  class  of 
pretenders  who  aped  them,  and  the  marvelous 
grammatical  twists  and  mirth-provoking  phases  of 
the  illiterate  man  from  the  South;  the  rugged  and 
picturesque  dialect  of  the  Westerner  who  had 
lived  close  to  nature  and  whose  ideas  and  vocabu- 
lary were  well  matched  in  directness  and  vividness 
of  coloring;  the  educated  Irishman  who  spoke 
the  best  English,  and  the  uneducated  Irishman  who 
spoke  the  funniest  and  most  original ;  the  educated 
Englishman  who  had  every  word  in  its  place 
rightly  pronounced,  and  the  Englishman  to  whom 
the  eighth  letter  of  the  alphabet  was  a  perpetual 
puzzle  in  its  relation  to  vowel  sounds;  the  Ger- 
man, Frenchman,  Dutchman,  Italian,  Spaniard, 
Scandinavian,  Russian,  and  all  the  rest,  whose 
English,  varying  in  quantity  and  quality,  revealed 
their  nativity  and  indicated  how  long  they  had  been 

(HI) 


142  Sunset  Views, 

under  our  stars  and  stripes.  Bishop  Pierce  hit  it 
when  he  said,  '*CaHfornia  is  a  jumble."  It  was 
a  strange  mixture — a  little  of  all  the  world  in  con- 
tact, but  not  in  cohesion.  There  was  constant 
effervescence  and  startling  explosions  among  these 
Calif ornians  gathered  from  everywhere,  and  with 
so  many  different  ways  of  thinking,  speaking,  and 
doing.  There  was  a  charm  about  it  that  never 
was  lost — the  charm  of  novelty.  Individuality  was 
marked.  Conventionality  had  been  left  behind. 
The  Californian  was,  to  an  extent  scarcely  con- 
ceivable in  older  communities,  a  law  unto  himself 
— and  herself,  I  might  add,  for  the  early  California 
women,  though  fewer  in  number,  were  not  less 
notable  than  the  men  for  their  originality.  Some 
of  them,  thrown  on  their  own  resources,  developed 
astonishing  energy  and  capacity  for  self-support 
on  right  w^omanly  lines ;  others  exhibited  aptitude 
for  badness  and  descended  hellward  with  a  ve- 
locity that  was  awful.  When  a  woman  does  start 
down,  down  she  goes!  Everybody  expects  it, 
and  very  many  are  ready  to  facilitate  her  descent. 
The  best  women  are  better  than  the  best  men, 
speaking  in  a  general  way.  The  worst  women,  if 
not  really  worse  than  the  worst  men,  are  more 
hopeless.  Hopelessness  makes  recklessness.  God 
pity  the  man  or  woman  who  helps  to  shut  all  the 
doors  of  hope  against  any  sinning,  suffering  soul ! 
The  tragedies  that  came  to  my  knowledge  in  Cal- 
ifornia prove  that  there  is  a  personal  devil,  or  that 
there  are  malign  agencies  that  bring  to  pass  all  the 
evil  ascribed  to  Satan  in  the  Holy  Scriptures.  A 
personal  devil — why  did  God  permit  him  to  come 
into  being?  Why  does  not  God  kill  him?  These 
questions,  asked  alike  by  the  little  child  in  its  sim- 
plicity and  by  the  thought-weary  philosopher  in 
his  despair,  have  had  many  answers — some  impious 


Those  Early  Calif  or  nians.  143 

and  flippant,  some  reckless  and  despairing.  We 
do  know  that  the  evil  is  here.  We  do  know  that  an 
evil  effect  must  have  an  evil  cause.  And  so  we  are 
driven  by  the  logic  of  facts  to  accept  the  saying 
of  Jesus:  An  enemy  hath  done  this.  There  is  no 
use  in  caviling  and  quibbling.  Moral  freedom  is  a 
fact.  Moral  freedom  abused  brings  suffering  here 
in  this  world  where  we  can  see  and  feel  it.  When 
the  pitying  Christ  himself  tells  us  that,  persisted 
in,  evil  volition  will  carry  its  curse  into  the  next 
world  beyond,  why  should  we  doubt?  Universalism 
makes  an  ingenious  appeal  to  sentiment,  but  the 
text  of  the  Book  and  the  obvious  trend  of  all  that 
is  in  sight  now  are  against  it.  Is  this  a  digression  ? 
Not  much.  A  glance  at  the  worst  of  this  life  sug- 
gests a  query  concerning  the  possibilities  beyond. 
If  I  am  digressing,  I  will  digress  a  little  farther, 
by  quoting  for  the  reader  the  words :  Behold,  now 
is  the  accepted  ti?ne;  behold,  now  is  the  day  of  sal- 
vation. Now  we  can  be  saved.  This  ought  to 
satisfy  us  now.  Fuller  light  hereafter  is  part  of 
the  salvation  promised.  We  can  wait  for  it  thank- 
fully and  patiently. 

It  was  surprising  to  find  that  almost  everything 
in  California  was  in  dispute.  A  lawsuit  or  a  shoot- 
ing scrape  was  had  over  almost  every  mining  claim 
or  land  grant.  The  hottest  election  campaigns  in 
the  older  states  were  but  child's  play  in  compari- 
son with  such  contests  in  early  California.  (  Ever}-- 
body  else  in  America  save  an  old  Californian  will 
be  excused  for  doubting  this.)  Oratory,  treating, 
**  still-hunting,"  mass  meetings,  street  processions, 
personal  encounters  in  newspaper  controversy  and 
with  fists,  knives,  and  pistols,  made  running  for 
office  a  lively  experience  in  those  early  days  of 
California.  The  almost  incredible  bullying  and 
terrorism  of  the  San   Francisco  roughs  surprised 


144  Sunset  Views. 

and  for  awhile  paralyzed  the  city.  The  uprising 
and  vengeance  of  the  Vigilance  Committee  aston- 
ished, electrified  all  concerned.  The  gold  fever 
somehow  gave  a  feverish  diathesis  to  everything 
in  California.  That  fever  burns  on  yet.  The  red- 
hot  California  of  1855  is  a  slowly  cooling  but  not 
cold  cinder  in  1898.  The  ashes  smolder  in  many 
hearts  that  were  then  swept  by  the  firesof  passion, 
that  never  burned  more  fiercely  this  side  of  perdi- 
tion. 

The  truly  good  were  also  surprisingly  good  in 
the  California  of  that  time.  Negative  goodness 
was  good  for  nothing  then  and  there.  The  timid 
fled,  the  half-hearted  went  back  and  walked  no 
more  with  their  Lord.  If  there  was  a  weak  spot 
in  any  professed  Christian's  belief,  it  was  revealed; 
if  there  was  a  flaw  in  his  character,  it  broke  down 
at  that  point.  Early  California  was  strewn  thick 
with  moral  wrecks.  But  those  who  were  true  were 
the  truest  of  the  true  disciples  of  Jesus.  Those  who 
stood  those  fires  heated  seven-fold  came  forth  re- 
fined of  dross  and  shining  in  the  beauty  of  holiness. 
Never  for  a  day  was  I  out  of  sight  and  touch  with 
some  of  these  faithful  ones.  There  was  Drury  K. 
Bond,  a  miner  at  Sonora,  whose  sunny,  friendly  face 
reflected  a  soul  as  guileless  as  a  child's ;  who  moved 
amid  the  fires  of  sin  that  raged  around  him,  un- 
scorched;  whose  look,  tone,  and  everyday  walk 
were  so  Christlike  as  to  disarm  the  criticism  of  the 
most  cynical  and  skeptical,  and  fortify  the  faith 
of  all  who  had  faith.  He  became  a  preacher, 
spent  a  few  years  in  the  work  of  the  ministry,  do- 
ing good  in  a  quiet,  blessed  way  all  his  own — and 
then  went  home  to  God.  There  were  other  mi- 
ners like  him  in  the  California  mines  in  that  early 
time,  lights  shining  in  dark  places.  Then  there 
was  Judge  David  O.  Shattuck,  of  San  Francisco — 


Those  Early  Californiaiis,  145 

that  surprising  compound  of  legal  wisdom,  social 
simplicity,  and  Methodistic  strength  and  fervor. 
His  apostolic  presence  bespoke  his  goodness,  a 
goodness  that  none  could  question;  his  judicial 
decisions  were  the  terror  of  tricky  lawyers  and  the 
joy  of  the  common  people ;  his  sermons — he  was 
a  local  preacher — were  models  of  clear  exegesis, 
pointed  application,  and  fatherly  tenderness.  He 
was  a  marvel  to  all  who  knew  him — wise  as  a  ser- 
pent, harmless  as  a  dove,  in  the  sense  in  which 
the  words  were  used  by  the  Master  in  whose  steps 
he  walked.  Here  they  come  trooping  before  my 
mental  vision,  but  here  I  must  close  this  chapter. 
10 


SOME  PREACHERS. 


SOME   PREACHERS. 

TO  hear  Dr.  Eustace  Speer  preach  was  hke 
listening  to  a  music  box  that  played  the 
tunes  that  were  liveliest  and  sweetest,  and 
left  you  wishing  for  more  when  it  ceased. 
He  never  toyed  with  his  subject,  as  the 
manner  of  some  is.  His  sermons  had  no  **  intro- 
ductions." With  the  first  sentence  he  grasped  his 
theme  by  the  proper  handle,  and  held  it  firmly 
to  the  last.  Though  a  very  rapid  speaker,  every 
word  was  well  chosen  and  in  its  right  place.  "The 
effect  of  his  discourse  was  cumulative.  When  he 
stopped,  the  hearer  had  a  homiletic  picture  vivid 
and  symmetrical  photographed  in  memory.  The 
doctrine  he  preached  had  the  old-time  Georgia 
Methodist  quality  of  straightedgedness.  He  did 
not  refine,  symbolize,  or  explain  away  the  texts 
that  reveal  the  God  of  the  Bible  as  hating  sin  and 
loving  holiness;  he  did  not  joke  about  hell-fire, 
as  if  it  were  only  painted  fire ;  he  did  not  confound 
the  guilt  of  willful  sin  against  God  with  the  euphe- 
mistic phrases  now  used  by  many  who  preach  a 
gospel  of  progress,  so  called — but  progress  back- 
ward toward  a  theology  that  makes  a  God  of  straw 
and  ethics  that  make  one  thing  about  as  good  as 
another ;  the  namby-pamby  gospel  of  the  babblers 
who  have  invented  a  new  terminology  for  their 
new  religion,  which  is  no  religion  at  all.  Dr. 
Speer  could  make  the  foolishness  of  sin  look  very 
foolish  indeed.  The  sophistry  of  sin  he  could 
reveal  with  logical  flashes  that  went  through  it  like 
X-rays.  His  satire  burned  the  proud  flesh  of  the 
unrenewed  and  the  unrepentant  like  caustic.    His 

(H9) 


150  Sunset  Views. 

wit,  sparingly  used  in  the  pulpit,  had  a  flavor  like 
that  of  Dr.  South,  who  impaled  error  on  epigram- 
matic points.  He  used  quotation  with  rare  felicity  : 
his  quotations  were  diamonds  set  in  gold.  At  Mul- 
berry vStreet  Church  in  Macon,  Ga.,  one  Sunday, 
in  a  discourse  of  exquisite  beauty  and  tenderness, 
he  quoted  from  *'  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  the  de- 
scription of  Standfast  at  the  crossing  of  the  Jordan, 
and  he  did  it  in  a  style  so  graphic  that  the  impres- 
sion remains  with  me  undimmed  to  this  moment. 
His  short  prayer-meeting  talks,  expository  and  hor- 
tatory, stirring  and  brief,  were  models.  I  never 
heard  from  him  a  dull  sermon,  nor  attended  a 
dull  service  led  by  him.  He  had  the  social  gift:  he 
seemed  to  know  everybody,  and  drew  everybody 
to  him  by  sympathetic  attraction.  And  by  the 
true  pastoral  instinct  he  found  his  way  to  the 
places  where  there  were  sorrow  and  pain.  His 
presence  was  gracious  and  exhilarating,  if  I  may 
so  describe  it.  About  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height, 
''  raw-boned,"  rather  large-limbed,  with  uneven 
features,  aquiline  nose,  and  bright  brown,  express- 
ive eyes,  with  light-brown  hair  covering  a  noble 
head  firmly  set  on  his  broad  shoulders — a  genius 
in  the  pulpit,  and  akin  to  every  soul  he  met  outside 
of  it:  this  is  Dr.  Speer  as  he  appears  to  me  after 
the  lapse  of  the  many  years  that  have  come  and 
gone  since  I  sat  under  his  ministry — a  privilege 
for  which  I  shall  never  cease  to  be  thankful. 

Dr.  Whitefoord  Smith  was  the  most  popular 
preacher  in  Columbia,  the  capital  city  of  South 
Carolina,  when  I  first  knew  him.  He  was  a  high- 
flyer whose  wing  was  steady,  and  whose  eye  was 
fixed  on  the  sun — a  gray  eagle  of  the  pulpit.  His 
descriptive  powers  were  remarkable  :  what  he  saw 
he  made  his  hearers  see.  He  possessed  the  en- 
thusiasm that  gave  his  subject  possession  of  himself 


Some  Preachei's,  151 

for  the  time  being.  What  he  felt  his  hearers  felt :  he 
had  the  sincerity  of  conviction  and  intensity  of  feel- 
ing that  made  the  facts  of  the  gospel  and  the  experi- 
ences of  religion  tremendously  true.  His  hearers 
caught  his  enthusiasm,  and  were  borne  with  him  on 
the  high  tide  of  his  magnificent  pulpit  oratory.  As 
a  declaimer,  he  was  brilliant  and  fascinating  to  all 
classes  of  persons.  The  sweep  of  his  gesture  suit- 
ed the  sweep  of  his  rhetoric.  It  was  spread-eagle 
style,  but  in  no  derogatory  sense  of  the  word:  the 
king-bird  of  the  air  is  never  mistaken  for  any 
other  genus.  "  Let  us  go  to-night,  and  hear 
Whitefoord  Smith,"  said  the  blase  man  of  the 
world,  who  wanted  a  fresh  luxury  of  some  sort; 
the  woman  of  fashion,  who  liked  to  go  with  the 
crowd ;  the  student  of  human  nature,  who  took  de- 
light in  analyzing  the  elements  of  his  pulpit  power; 
the  schoolboy  and  schoolgirl,  who  gloried  in  pul- 
pit pyrotechnics  and  poetry;  the  old-time  Metho- 
dists, who  believed  in  a  judgment  day  and  a  New 
Jerusalem  with  its  golden  streets  and  rainbow 
arching  the  great  white  throne  on  which  sat  the 
King  of  glory — all  these  flocked  to  hear  Dr. 
Smith,  and  all  were  profited  more  or  less  as  well 
as  pleased.  The  Church  was  edified  under  his 
ministry,  for  through  all  his  cloth-of-golden  pulpit 
oratory  ran  the  scarlet  thread  of  the  doctrine  of  the 
cross.  He  built  upon  the  sure  foundation — Christ 
Jesus,  the  wisdom  of  God  and  the  power  of  God. 
He  reached  the  masses  and  drew  them,  Christward 
— this  pulpit  light  who  soared  and  shone,  a  star  of 
the  first  magnitude  in  the  heavens. 

Dr.  R.  T.  Nabors  left  a  memory  with  us  as  flaw- 
less as  a  crystal.  No  one  ever  heard  him  preach 
without  falling  in  love  with  both  the  preacher  and 
his  gospel.  The  graciousness  of  his  message  was 
equaled  by  the  grace  of  its  delivery.     The  frailty 


152  Sunset  Views. 

of  his  body  marked  him  for  early  translation  to  the 
higher  sphere  whose  airs  he  inhaled  in  holy  com- 
munion with  his  Lord,  and  lent  a  pathos  to  his 
ministry  that  none  could  resist.  Your  first  thought 
when  you  saw  him  enter  the  pulpit  was  that  there 
was  a  man  suited  to  bring  us  a  message  from  the 
world  of  spirits :  he  was  himself  more  spiritual  than 
earthly,  as  he  stood  there  before  the  people — a  man 
not  above  medium  stature,  notably  gentle  andgrace- 
ful  in  bearing,  his  palid  face  ashine  from  an  inner 
light,  his  thin  frame  clad  in  faultless  black,  his 
features  feminine  in  their  fine  delicacy,  reflecting 
every  changing  phase  of  thought  and  feeling  in  his 
discourse,  and  withal  an  aroma  of  heavenly-mind- 
edness  that  filled  the  house  of  God  with  its  fra- 
grance. He  was  a  living  epistle,  known  and  read 
of  all  who  came  within  the  range  of  his  ministry. 
A  finer  touch  than  mine  would  be  required  to  de- 
scribe his  preaching.  The  usual  descriptives  seem 
coarse  and  awkward  when  applied  to  Nabors. 
When  he  was  brought  to  Nashville  and  stationed 
at  West  End,  near  Vanderbilt  University,  one 
object  had  in  view  was  to  give  the  students  of 
that  institution  an  object  lesson  in  saintliness — 
saintliness  without  sanctimony,  saintliness  with- 
out sentimentality  or  softness,  the  saintliness  of 
a  manly  nature  touched  and  transfigured  by  the 
touch  of  the  Master.  He  was  what  is  called  by 
some  a  flowery  preacher,  but  only  in  a  good 
sense.  There  was  in  his  soul  a  love  of  beauty  that 
led  to  an  inevitable  efflorescence  in  his  speech. 
His  flowers  were  never  artificial ;  they  had  both 
the  bloom  and  the  fragrance  of  living  plants  grow- 
ing in  the  garden  of  the  Lord.  The  lilies  of  the 
valley  graced  the  garlands  he  wreathed  for  the 
brow  of  the  King;  the  rose  of  Sharon  with  him, 
as  in  the  Song  of  Songs,  the   queen  of  all.     He 


Some  Preachers,  153 

was  so  attuned  to  the  diviner  harmonies  that  his 
sermons  were  truth  set  to  music.  The  crucified, 
risen,  reigning,  interceding  Christ  was  his  one 
theme  of  discourse.  The  refrain  of  the  Corona- 
tion Hymn  was  the  keynote  of  his  preaching:  to 
crown  him  Lord  of  all  was  the  aim  of  his  ministry 
and  the  inspiration  of  his  eloquence.  The  vener- 
able chancellor  of  the  university  sat  enthralled  by 
his  genius  and  uplifted  by  his  touch,  while  the  lit- 
tle children  looked  and  listened  with  a  pleasure 
and  wonder  they  did  not  understand,  but  felt  that 
it  was  easier  for  them  to  love  the  Christ  preached 
to  them  by  this  disciple  who  lived  so  close  to  him 
and  had  so  much  of  his  spirit. 

George  Sim,  an  undersized  Englishman  of  few 
words,  was  a  gold  mmer  in  one  of  the  mining 
camps  of  northern  California.  One  night,  ar- 
rayed in  his  mining  apparel,  a  red  flannel  shirt  and 
corduroy  breeches,  he  sat  among  the  hearers  in 
the  rear  of  the  little  chapel  on  the  hillside.  The 
preacher  was  filled  with  the  Spirit,  and  the  sermon 
shot  an  arrow  of  conviction  to  the  heart  of  the 
grave  and  taciturn  little  Englishman.  Conviction 
was  speedily  followed  by  conversion,  and  his  con- 
version by  a  call  to  preach.  The  reader  will  see 
that  language  of  certainty  is  used  in  this  brief  nar- 
ration. He  gave  every  evidence  that  his  convic- 
tion was  genuine  and  his  conversion  clear.  One 
of  the  surest  evidences  of  his  call  to  preach  was  in 
the  fact  that  he  could  preach.  A  man  who  can- 
not preach  is  not  called  to  that  function,  though 
some  good  men  have  seemed  to  think  otherwise. 
The  first  time  I  ever  heard  him,  and  every  time 
thereafter,  I  had  a  surprise.  His  sermons,  reported 
verbatim  et  literatim^  would  have  graced  any  first- 
class  homiletic  magazine  of  our  day.  There  was 
a  finish  about  them  very  remarkable :   the  unity  of 


154  Sunset  Views. 

the  parts,  the  severe  sententiousness  of  the  style, 
the  closeness  of  the  logic — in  a  word,  the  polemic 
vigor  and  literary  beauty  of  his  sermons  were  ex- 
traordinary. I  never  heard  from  his  lips  a  dis- 
course which  would  not  have  borne  the  test  of 
the  printer's  ink.  Of  how  many  living  preachers 
could  this  be  truthfully  said?  His  preaching  was 
simplicity  and  directness  in  perfection,  the  undi- 
luted gospel  in  the  fewest  words,  mostly  Anglo- 
Saxon  monosyllables  like  his  text-book,  the  Eng- 
lish Bible,  which  he  quoted  with  special  frequency 
and  felicity.  He  knew  that  English  Bible :  he  was 
saturated  with  it;  its  thought  had  interpenetrated 
his  thought,  its  spirit  had  flooded  his  spirit.  He 
had  little  gesture  of  any  sort,  was  sparing  in  illus- 
tration or  anecdote,  and  never  uttered  a  joke  in 
the  pulpit.  He  simply  preached  the  gospel,  and 
nothing  but  the  gospel,  in  its  plainest  terms  and 
fewest  words — not  with  enticing  words  of  man's 
-wisdom,  but  in  demonstration  of  the  Spirit  and  of 
power.  That  blessed  demonstration  attended  his 
ministry  from  first  to  last.  Souls  that  were  hun- 
gry for  the  word  of  life  were  eager  to  be  fed  by 
him — cultured  men  and  women  who  knew  the 
difference  between  the  simple  beauty  of  the  truth 
that  is  the  highest  beauty  of  the  universe  and  the 
meretricious  beribboning  and  bespangling  of  it  by 
bunglers  and  babblers.  "Where  did  he  get  all 
he  knows?"  was  asked  by  a  scholarly  man  after 
meeting  Sim  socially.  He  seemed  to  have  read 
more  widely  than  other  men  with  far  larger  oppor- 
tunity: the  treasures  of  history,  science,  art,  phi- 
losophy, and  general  literature,  in  the  truest  and 
largest  meaning  of  the  word,  were  at  his  command. 
No  rubbish  cumbered  his  capacious  brain,  and  the 
glorious  gospel  of  the  grace  of  God  filled  all  the 
needs  of  his  soul.     He  knew  it  to  be  clothed  with 


So?ne  Preachei's.  155 

a  power  all  its  own.  He  felt  that  power  in  his  own 
heart,  and  as  preached  by  him  it  was  felt  by  many 
who  will  be  glad  forever  that  they  sat  under  his 
ministry. 

Another  name  comes  in  here — that  of  Robert 
W.  Bigham,  who  died  at  Demorest,  Georgia,  Oc- 
tober II,  1900.  He  was  my  presiding  elder  in  the 
California  mines  in  1856.  '*Bob"  Bigham,  his 
old  Georgia  comrades  fondly  called  him  in  his 
younger  days.  The  abbreviation  was  expressive 
of  the  affectionate  familiarity  that  lent  its  special 
charm  to  the  inner  circles  of  clerical  friendship. 
He  came  of  good  old  Georgia  stock,  and  was  mold- 
ed by  Georgia  Methodism  when  it  was  at  the  height 
of  its  militancy  and  fervor.  He  was  an  uneven 
preacher:  at  his  best  his  sermons  were  massive 
and  symmetrical  homiletical  structures.  His  great- 
est failures  suggested  more  than  some  noisier  men 
ever  say  in  the  pulpit.  He  was  a  faithful  servant 
of  God.  He  was  a  true  friend.  *'  Fitzgerald,"  he 
said  to  me  one  day  in  his  brotherly  way,  "you 
have  a  dangerous  gift,  the  gift  of  popularity."  His 
kindly  heart  may  have  led  him  to  exaggerate  the 
measure  of  good  will  felt  for  me  by  those  early  Cal- 
ifornians,  but  his  admonition  was  timely  for  any 
young  preacher.  He  was  fearless  and  guileless. 
In  a  contest  he  never  thought  of  making  any  con- 
cessions .where  any  righteous  principle  or  policy 
was  involved,  and  was  incapable  of  evasion.  He 
was  the  soul  of  Christian  chivalry  in  the  truest, 
loftiest  sense  of  the  word.  Our  paths  parted.  I 
am  glad  that  I  knew  him. 


FIVE  FATHERS  OF  GEORGIA  METHODISM. 


FIVE  FATHERS  OF  GEORGIA  METHODISM, 

THE  Indian  fighter,  the  hunter,  and  the  cir- 
cuit rider  were  taking  possession  of  the 
land.  The  rifle,  the  ax,  and  the  saddle- 
bags held  sway.  Daniel  Boone  and  Fran- 
cis Asbury  typed  the  manhood  of  the  time. 
The  men  then  called  of  God  to  preach  were  men 
who  feared  not  any  face  of  clay.  Only  men  of 
strongest  mold  and  fearless  soul  could  have  got- 
ten a  hearing.  The  weakly  bookish  and  oth- 
erwise weakly  pulpit  peddler  of  theological  Per- 
hapses,  such  as  are  now  seen  and  heard  in  some 
places,  would  then  have  been  ignored  or  laughed 
at.  The  people  had  no  time  to  waste  on  idle  or 
merely  curious  speculations.  They  gave  a  hear- 
ing only  to  men  who  brought  them  an  earnest 
message  in  the  present  tense.  Those  old  Georgia 
preachers  were  converted  sinners  who  knew  how 
to  preach  to  sinners.  They  believed  in  total  de- 
pravity and  full  salvation ;  many  of  them  claimed 
that  they  knew  both  experimentally.  These  preach- 
ers were  the  product  of  their  times  by  the  grace  of 
God.  We  shall  not  look  upon  their  like  again. 
Men  as  great  and  as  good  may  appear  when  they 
are  wanted,  but  they  will  be  men  of  a  different 
type.  Their  chief  characteristic  was  robustness. 
Georgia  Methodism  as  it  is  now  is  their  work. 
The  names  mentioned  in  this  chapter  represent 
their  generation.  These  men — Samuel  Anthony, 
James  E.  Evans,  William  J.  Parks,  John  W.  Glenn, 
and  William  Arnold — will  sit  for  the  picture,  in 
the  background  of  which  are  the  thousands  they 
led,  the  Georgia  Methodism  which  is  so  largely 
the  fruit  of  their  labors. 

(>59) 


i6o  Sunset  Views. 

Samuel  Anthony  was  my  pastor  at  the  old  Mulber- 
ry Street  Church  in  Macon  when  I  first  knew  him. 
The  mention  of  his  name  brings  up  memories  that 
are  vivid  and  sacred.  In  no  other  man  have  I  ever 
seen  such  a  blending  of  sternnes§  and  tenderness. 
While  denouncing  worldliness  in  the  Church  or 
threatening  impenitent  sinners  with  the  wrath  of 
a  sin-hating  God,  his  tall  form  seemed  to  rise  to 
a  loftier  stature,  and  his  voice  rang  out  like  the 
peal  of  a  super-terrestrial  trumpet.  The  hearer 
felt  that  he  was  listening  to  judgment-day  thun- 
der, and  could  almost  see  the  flash  of  its  lightnings. 
In  expostulation  with  hard-hearted  sinners,  and  in 
pleading  with  backsliders  to  come  back  to  the  path 
of  duty  from  which  they  had  strayed,  there  was  an 
awfulness  in  his  pathos  that  cannot  be  put  on  pa- 
per. "  It  has  been  said  that  only  a  mother  knows 
the  heart  of  a  mother,"  he  said  one  day  while 
making  one  of  these  appeals.  **  Only  a  mother 
knows  the  heart  of  a  mother,  and  only  a  pastor 
knows  the  heart  of  a  pastor" — and  his  frame 
quivered  with  irrepressible  emotion  as  he  spoke. 
There  was  a  quaking  and  melting  that  day  in  the 
great  congregation.  The  man  of  God  felt  the 
pangs  of  soul-travail,  and  a  mighty  revival  came  to 
the  birth.  He  was  a  true  pastor  who  watched  for 
souls  as  one  that  must  give  account.  Was  he  elo- 
quent? He  was  more  than  eloquent:  he  was  sur- 
charged with  a  power  that  went  beyond  any  de- 
scribable  effects  of  tone  or  gesture  in  human 
speech.  When  the  pulpit  glow  was  on  his  strong, 
rugged  face,  it  shone  like  the  sunlit  face  of  a  gran- 
ite cliff.  In  his  impassioned  appeals  the  tones  of 
his  voice  mellowed  into  sweetness  and  fell  into  the 
rhythmical  flow  that  seems  to  be  the  natural  ex- 
pression of  human  thought  and  emotion  when  at 
full  tide.     Six  feet   and   three   or  four  inches   in 


Five  Fathers  of  Georgia  Methodism.       i6i 

height,  long-Hmbed  and  large-boned,  with  uneven 
features  and  particularly  high  cheek  bones,  deep- 
set  blue  eyes  under  heavy,  dark  eyebrows,  with  a 
complexion  that  spoke  of  fresh  air  and  temperate 
living — this  is  the  man  as  he  now  comes  up  before 
my  mind.  I  humbly  thank  God  that  I  ever  met 
him  and  sat  under  his  ministry. 

John  W.  Glenn  was  my  first  presiding  elder.  He 
was  a  presiding  elder  who  presided ;  he  was  a  lead- 
er who  led.  He  was  a  rugged  sage  who  saw  men 
and  things  in  the  dry  light  of  real  facts,  and  who 
acted  upon  the  facts  as  he  saw  them  with  almost 
mathematical  certainty.  He  knew  nothing  of  eva- 
sion or  irresolution.  There  were  to  him  only  two 
sides  to  any  question — the  right  side  and  the 
wrong  side.  He  marshaled  his  Church  forces  like 
a  true  general  who  knew  what  ought  to  be  done, 
and  calculated  to  a  fraction  the  resources  at  his 
command.  He  planned  wisely,  and  then  moved 
boldly — as  Von  Moltke  phrased  it,  *«  he  pon- 
dered well,  and  then  dared."  The  Church  moved 
forward  under  his  leadership.  The  stragglers 
were  disciplined  and  made  to  keep  step,  or  were 
drummed  out  of  camp.  He  was  a  true  disciplin- 
arian: that  is  to  say,  he  knew  the  law  of  the 
Church  by  heart,  and  enforced  it  to  the  letter. 
The  paternal  element  was  conjoined  with  the  au- 
tocratic in  his  make-up.  To  me,  a  young  preach- 
er with  everything  to  learn,  he  was  patient  and 
faithful  in  his  dealing.  His  outburst  of  opposition 
to  my  going  to  California  almost  electrified  me.  It 
is  plain  enough  to  me  now  that  he  saw  farther  and 
more  clearly  than  some  others  who  then  had  the 
ear  of  the  Church.  As  a  preacher  the  substance 
of  his  message  was:  Obey  the  gospel,  do  your 
duty  now  as  God  commands,  and  receive  his  bless- 
ing; disobey  or  delay  at  the  peril  of  your  soul. 
1 1 


1 62  Sunset  Views. 

He  spoke  as  one  having  authority,  as  the  accred- 
ited minister  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  called,  com- 
missioned, and  equipped  for  the  work  committed 
unto  him.  The  pleasure  of  the  Lord  prospered  in 
his  hand.  He  never  took  a  backward  step  as  a  lead- 
er. He  never  cheapened  the  terms  of  membership 
in  the  Church  to  accommodate  or  conciliate  the 
half-hearted.  He  did  not  use  sedatives  where  caus- 
tic was  needed  in  dealing  with  diseased  members  of 
the  ecclesiastical  body.  His  faithful  ministry  re- 
sulted in  the  awakening  and  reclamation  of  many 
souls,  while  it  conserved  the  purity  and  power  of 
the  Church.  Standing  on  his  sturdy  limbs,  ro- 
bust of  frame,  with  a  leonine  head  massive  and 
bushy-haired,  with  a  face  whose  features  expressed 
transparent  honesty  and  courageous  forcefulness, 
the  figure  of  John  W.  Glenn  will  hold  its  place 
among  the  men  who  led  Georgia  Methodism  in  the 
days  of  its  highest  militancy. 

James  E.  Evans  was  the  weeping  prophet  in  his 
day,  a  man  who  could  preach  and  sing  and  pray 
with  an  intensity  of  feeling  and  a  sustained  energy 
that  were  little  short  of  the  miraculous.  The  dom- 
inant note  of  his  preaching  was  its  fervidness. 
His  soul  was  on  fire,  and  he  kindled  a  holy  con- 
flagration wherever  he  went.  Charles  Wesley's 
hymns  as  sung  by  him  seemed  to  catch  an  added 
glow  and  a  more  thrilling  power.  He  could  preach 
three  sermons  a  day,  lead  the  singing  at  every 
service,  exhort  mightily,  and  make  intercessory 
prayers  that  seemed  to  lift  penitent  souls  for  whom 
he  prayed  into  the  very  arms  of  the  pitying  Christ. 
Those  sermons,  exhortations,  songs,  and  prayers 
are  echoing  in  living  hearts  to-day;  they  set  in 
motion  tides  of  gracious  influence  that  will  break 
upon  the  shore  of  eternity.  He  was  a  marked 
exception  to   the  rule  that  the  revivali?t  and  the 


Five  Fathers  of  Georgia  Methodism.        163 

Church  financier  are  not  to  be  looked  for  in  the 
same  person.  He  had  a  double  vocation  as  preach- 
er, church-builder,  and  debt-raiser.  His  great 
physical  stature,  his  personal  magnetism,  the  mel- 
ody of  his  voice,  and  his  versatility  in  social  gifts 
marked  him  for  leadership  in  the  Church.  He  was 
a  faithful  steward  of  the  manifold  grace  of  God. 
His  tread  was  that  of  a  giant.  Georgia  Metho- 
dism will  bear  the  impress  of  his  genius  as  long  as 
the  waters  of  the  Ocmulgee  sing  their  way  to  the 
sea. 

The  one  word  that  comes  to  my  pen  point  in  de- 
scribing William  J.  Parks  is  "aggressiveness."  He 
pushed  to  his  logical  conclusions  over  all  sophis- 
tries and  suppressions.  He  pushed  his  way  to  de- 
sired results  over  all  opposers.  He  was  the  auto- 
crat of  debate :  the  most  eloquent  orators  and  the 
most  subtle  special  pleaders  went  down  before  the 
onset  of  this  man,  who  always  seemed  to  know  all 
the  facts  involved  in  a  discussion  and  to  be  able  to 
set  them  forth  in  the  fewest  and  most  forcible 
words.  There  was  no  confusion  in  his  thought, 
no  waste  in  his  verbiage.  He  was  in  himself  a 
Conference  majority  in  most  cases  by  the  mere 
force  of  his  parliamentary  genius.  In  a  legislative 
body  where  he  could  have  found  full  play  for  his 
powers  he  would  have  ranked  with  the  first  men 
of  his  time.  He  was  as  an  oracle  for  wisdom 
among  his  compeers,  and  had  a  permanent  follow- 
ing among  the  masses  accorded  only  to  men  who 
are  born  to  lead.  His  sermons  were  like  shots 
from  a  rifled  gun  before  which  nothing  could 
stand.  He  could  impale  an  error  or  expose  a  fal- 
lacy in  a  single  sentence  that  struck  to  the  heart 
and  stuck  to  the  memory.  He  was  deliberation 
personified.  His  sayings  were  quoted  far  and 
wide;   ''Uncle"  Billy  Parks,  as  the  people  fondly 


164  Sunset  Views,  ^ 

called  mm,  thus  furnished  ammunition  for  multi- 
tudes of  Methodists  in  their  polemic  warfare,  and 
in  their  conflict  with  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil.  His  character  and  his  work  are  as  solid 
and  enduring  as  the  strength-girded  Stone  Moun- 
tain upon  which  the  storms  have  beaten  from  cen- 
tury to  century  and  left  no  scar. 

William  Arnold  was  unique  among  his  contem- 
poraries. He  stood  alone  as  the  delineator  of  the 
lives  of  the  saints  and  painter  of  the  glories  of  heav- 
en. Far  and  near  he  was  sent  for  to  preach  funeral 
sermons  for  the  old  and  the  3^oung,  the  rich  and  the 
poor  alike.  With  his  long  white  hair,  serene,  rud- 
dy face,  soul-lit  blue  eyes,  and  apostolic  presence, 
he  seemed  to  belong  to  the  spiritual  world  of  which 
it  was  his  delight  to  preach  to  the  rapt  and  tearful 
multitudes  that  sat  under  his  ministry.  To  look 
upon  him  and  hear  him  made  it  easy  to  believe  in 
the  truths  he  proclaimed  and  to  love  the  Christ 
whose  image  he  bore.  He  was  a  living  demonstra- 
tion of  the  power  of  the  gospel  to  lift  men  above 
the  plane  of  nature — a  walking  embodiment  of 
that  spiritually-mindedness  which  is  life  and  peace. 
When  he  stood  in  the  pulpit,  with  his  silver  locks 
falling  around  his  temples,  his  rapt  face  aglow  with 
the  holy  flame  that  burned  within  his  soul,  it  seemed 
to  the  lookers-on  that  in  him  the  two  worlds  met. 
Death,  the  resurrection,  and  the  joys  of  the  re- 
deemed were  his  themes — especially  the  joys  of 
the  glorified  saints.  The  best  hymns  that  bore  on 
these  subjects  he  quoted  with  wonderful  fluency 
and  appositeness :  many  of  his  funeral  sermons 
were  hymnological  mosaics,  sparkling  in  more  than 
poetic  beauty.  The  popular  impression  was  that 
he  improvised  much  of  the  verse  he  uttered:  it 
came  from  his  heart  with  a  spontaneity  and  unctu- 
ousness   that  seemed  like  inspiration  rather  than 


Five  Fathers  of  Georgia  Methodism.       165 

memory.  The  listening  saints  fell  in  love  with  the 
heaven  of  which  he  preached  and  sang,  renewed 
their  vows,  and  quickened  their  steps  thitherward. 
The  mourners  looked  up  through  their  tears  and 
took  comfort.  At  times  a  mighty  afflatus  would 
descend  upon  the  man  of  God  and  upon  the  wait- 
ing assembly,  and  preacher  and  people  were  swept 
away  upon  mighty  tides  of  emotion  that  could  no 
more  be  checked  than  the  roll  of  the  ocean  at  its 
flood.  Nobody  wished  to  check  the  mighty  and 
solemn  joy.  It  came  because  the  channels  were 
open;  they  let  it  flow  in  unhindered,  and  praised 
God  for  a  present  salvation  and  a  hope  that  was 
full  of  glory.  Uncramped  by  conventionalities, 
and  unused  to  repression  of  opinion  or  feeling, 
they  could  not  help  shouting.  It  is  almost  certain 
that  they  did  not  try  to  help  it.  It  did  not  hurt 
them.  Their  joy  was  full,  and  tliey  gave  it  vent 
in  their  own  way.  The  voices  of  the  white-haired 
preacher  and  most  of  those  old  shouting  Georgia 
Methodists  have  long  since  joined  in  the  hallelu- 
iahs of  the  glorified  hosts  in  the  city  of  God.  The 
echoes  will  never  cease  among  their  s;n*iitual  chil- 
dren so  long  as  there  is  a  Methodist  W>me  or  a 
Methodist  altar  in  Georgia. 


THE  OLD  PANEL 


THE  OLD   PANEL. 

THEY  were  of  the  race  of  the  Colossi — 
those  bishops  of  the  old  panel  of  Southern 
Methodists.  There  was  not  a  runt  nor  a 
weakling  among  them .  They  differed  one 
from  another  as  widely  as  good  men  could 
differ.  They  were  not  all  equally  great,  but  each 
was  a  genius  in  his  own  way.  Men  as  great  as 
they,  and  even  greater  than  some  of  them,  failing 
nowhere  save  in  elections  to  connectional  office, 
lived  obscure  lives  in  narrower  spheres  of  service, 
and  had  no  memorial  other  than  the  obituary  de- 
partment of  the  Church  paper  and  the  mortuary 
register  of  the  Annual  Conference.  They  did  not 
live  for  fame ;  their  record  is  on  high — and  that  is 
all  they  sought.  But  we  have  found  ourselves  ask- 
ing, What  would  have  been  the  record  of  certain 
gifted  men  who  were  talked  of  and  voted  for  for 
the  episcopacy,  had  they  not  died  without  it  ?  Who 
knows?  Mere  officeholding  is  not  fame.  To  the 
incompetent  and  unworthy,  both  in  Church  and 
State,  it  has  been  a  pillory  rather  than  a  pedestal. 
Joshua  Soule  stood  at  the  head  of  the  old  panel  of 
bishops  in  more  senses  than  one.  He  was  a  South- 
ern Methodist  from  Maine.  With  half  a  chance, 
those  big-framed  men  from  Maine  made  excellent 
Southerners.  There  was  a  tonic  quality  in  its 
great  forests  of  pine  and  in  its  coast  breezes  that 
gave  a  bulk,  firmness,  and  fineness  to  its  manhood 
that  found  responsiveness  in  the  large-framed,  lib- 
eral-minded, high-mettled  Southerners  of  the  best 
class.  Blaine's  personal  popularity  in  the  South 
was  very  great;  and  when  he  made  an  anti-climax 

(169) 


I^O  Sim  set  Views. 

of  his  public  career,  the  South  was  a  chief  mourner 
at  his  political  grave .  That  other  man  from  Maine , 
Speaker  Reed — Tom  Reed,  ''the  Czar,"  in  news- 
paper lingo — was  a  social  lion  among  Southern- 
ers in  Washington  City.  These  men  were  weighty, 
warm-blooded,  human — not  lucky  in  politics,  but 
with  a  personal  following  like  that  of  Clay  or  Jack- 
son. When  Joshua  Soule  refused  ordination  on 
what  many  men  would  have  called  a  mere  punctilio, 
but  what  was  to  him  a  point  of  honor,  he  showed  the 
metal  of  which  he  was  made.  He  was  wrought 
steel,  double-refined  in  the  fiery  trials  that  some- 
how come  in  some  form  to  every  man  who  does 
anything  worth  doing  in  this  world.  He  left  noth- 
ing behind  him  worth  mentioning  in  the  line  of 
written  or  printed  thought.  He  was  not  a  writer, 
nor  a  dreamer,  nor  a  theorizer.  He  was  a  Metho- 
dist preacher  who  stuck  to  his  vocation,  and  an 
administrator  who  administered  according  to  the 
Methodist  discipline,  with  an  eye  single  to  duty 
as  prescribed  by  the  law  of  the  Church  and  the 
Head  of  the  Church.  But  though  he  left  behind 
him  no  ''literary  remains,"  he  did  bequeath  to  the 
Church  a  legacy  rich  beyond  computation — a  life 
without  spot  or  blemish,  or  any  such  thing;  an  ex- 
ample of  subordination  of  self  to  duty  in  the  pres- 
ent tense,  imperative  mood;  a  nobility  of  Christian 
manhood  that  stood  every  test.  He  set  the  fashion, 
so  to  speak,  in  his  great  office.  His  life  is  worth 
more  to  his  Church  than  a  library  filled  with  books 
that  deal  with  Christian  duty  and  ethics  as  ab- 
stractions. Any  man,  in  the  succession  to  Bishop 
Soule,  who  should  prove  to  be  self-seeking,  cow- 
ardly, or  small-minded,  would  furnish  a  demon- 
stration of  invincible  natural  depravity  and  sinis- 
ter heredity.  Bishop  Soule  looked  the  man  he 
was:  tall  and  stately,  with  the  gravity  of  a  thinker; 


The  Old  Panel,  171 

virile,  incisive,  reverend,  serene,  with  that  impres- 
sion of  reserved  force  pecuhar  to  the  grand  men 
who  possess  it;  a  man  among  men,  and  a  mighty 
man  of  God. 

When  the  famous  race  horse,  '*  Bascom,"  was 
announced  as  the  winner  on  the  race  track  at 
Lexington,  Ky.,  a  gigantic  Kentuckian,  amid  the 
cheering  of  the  crowd,  exclaimed,  *'  Hurrah  for 
Bascom !  I'll  bet  ten  thousand  dollars  that  the 
man  that  colt  was  named  for  can  beat  any  other 
man  preaching  in  these  United  States."  He  found 
no  takers  in  that  crowd.  The  great  preacher  was 
at  the  top  of  his  fame,  the  man  of  the  hour  as  a 
pulpit  orator.  That  is  what  remains  of  Bascom — 
the  tradition  of  wonderful  oratory.  * '  Bascom  can- 
not be  described,"  said  Bishop  Kavanaugh ;  ''he 
was  simply  overwhelming.  There  was  a  majesty 
of  bearing,  a  rush  of  imagery,  a  vehemence  of 
manner,  a  flow  of  emotion  that  could  not  be  an- 
alyzed or  described.  I  loved  him,"  continued 
his  lovable  and  much-loved  successor,  **  for  he 
was  as  absolutely  guileless  and  tender  of  heart 
as  he  was  transcendent  in  his  intellectual  endow- 
ment." Bascom's  printed  sermons  were  a  disap- 
pointment. The  Bascom  who  thrilled  with  his 
wonderful  oratory  the  crowds  who  thronged  to 
hear  him  at  our  national  capital — whose  name  was 
the  synonym  for  eloquence  everywhere  among  his 
countrymen,  drawing  the  largest  congregations  and 
eliciting  the  largest  share  of  contemporaneous  ad- 
miration and  applause — is  looked  for  in  vain  in 
these  printed  sermons.  For  the  most  part  they 
are  magniloquent,  turgid,  and  rickety  in  structure: 
here  and  there  they  have  a  touch  so  giant-like  in 
its  swing  and  power  that  the  reader  recognizes  the 
production  of  genius,  though  it  is  genius  unhar- 
nessed and  half  asleep.     He  was  undoubtedly  a 


172  Sunset  Views, 

very  great  preacher;  and  not  only  the  tradition  of 
his  wonderful  oratory,  but  the  fruit  of  it,  abides. 
He  was  a  man  of  sorrows.  He  stands  before  the 
Church  like  a  mountain  peak  overtopping  the  sur- 
rounding hills,  its  sides  draped  in  the  mist,  cloud- 
capped,  the  light  breaking  through  the  gloom  at  the 
sunset. 

The  one  word  that  describes  Bishop  James  O. 
Andrew  is  the  word  "fatherly  " — the  sort  of  father- 
liness  that  implies  not  only  benignity,  but  strength, 
wisdom,  forethought,  patience.  He  was  a  vicari- 
ous sufferer,  the  storm-center  of  a  tempestuous 
epoch  in  the  history  of  the  Church.  It  so  happened 
that  this  most  fatherly  man  gave  occasion  for  the 
clash  that  w^as  bound  to  come  because  it  was  bar- 
gained for  in  antecedent  legislation  both  in  Church 
and  State,  and  was  involved  in  the  conjunction  of 
conditions  that  precipitated  the  long-dreaded  yet 
inevitable  catastrophe.  He  was  strong  enough  and 
true  enough  for  the  crisis.  Pushed  to  the  front  of 
the  line  of  battle,  he  had  at  his  back  all  the  forces 
of  his  section.  It  was  a  sectional  tight:  the  old 
regime  and  the  letter  of  the  constitution  were  on 
the  side  of  the  South,  and  the  drift  of  events  and 
the  spirit  of  the  age  were  with  the  North.  The 
split  in  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  was  only 
a  symptom  of  a  disease,  the  germs  of  which  were 
injected  into  the  body  politic  by  the  framers  of  our 
government.  The  first  gun  in  our  civil  war  was 
fired  at  Philadelphia  in  1789,  and  the  last  at  Ap- 
pomattox in  1865.  Yes,  the  last:  whatever  may 
be  the  destiny  awaiting  this  nation  in  the  unknown 
future,  it  will  be  met  by  us  as  a  united  people. 
During  all  those  years  of  strife,  neither  weakness 
nor  acrimony  was  ever  exhibited  by  Bishop  An- 
drew: through  it  all  he  bore  himself  with  dignity 
and  patience.     His  face  bore  the  marks  of  inward 


The  Old  Panel,  173 

struggle,  but  he  gave  no  outward  sign  of  the  secret 
griefs  that  he  carried  only  to  the  Lord  who  was 
his  sun  and  shield.  Full-grown  and  stalwart, 
forcefulness  and  friendliness  beaming  from  his 
strong,  open  face,  his  thin  gray  locks  falling  on 
either  side  of  his  noble  head,  he  stands  in  his  lot 
in  Church  history,  a  father  in  Israel  who  will  hold 
his  place  in  the  veneration  and  affection  of  our 
people  so  long  as  they  maintain  the  principles  of 
truth  and  righteousness  for  which  he  was  a  cham- 
pion and  in  some  sense  a  martyr. 

Standing  in  close  relation  to  Bishop  Andrew,  his- 
torically and  otherwise,  is  Bishop  Robert  Paine. 
Born  in  North  Carolina,  trained  for  his  work  in 
Alabama,  matured  and  developed  in  Mississippi, 
and  mellowed  and  sweetened  in  his  wide  sphere  of 
connectional  service  and  in  the  school  of  suffer- 
ing, he  did  a  work  for  the  Church  whose  value 
cannot  be  computed  this  side  of  the  judgment  day. 
He  was  a  Southern  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  a 
Christian  of  the  type  that  built  up  what  is  best  in 
our  civilization,  a  servant  of  the  Church  who  was 
faithful  to  every  trust  and  equal  to  the  heavy  re- 
sponsibilities devolved  upon  him  by  the  suffrages 
of  his  brethren.  To  have  known  him  was  to  pos- 
sess a  prophylactic  against  misanthropy  or  pessi- 
mistic views  as  to  the  ultimate  possibilities  of  hu- 
man nature.  As  president  of  a  Christian  college 
the  quality  of  Christian  manhood  revealed  to  his 
pupils  in  his  daily  intercourse  with  them  what 
lies  beyond  all  text-book  pedagogy:  the  possibili- 
ty of  such  an  imitation  of  Christ  as  kindled  within 
them  the  loftiest  aspiration  and  spurred  them  to. 
the  most  strenuous  endeavor.  The  only  thing  of 
essential  importance  concerning  any  man,  young 
or  old,  is  just  this:  the  quality  of  his  manhood. 
The  traditions  of  Bishop  Paine  at  Lagrange  Col- 


174  Sunset  Views. 

lege  remain  among  us  to  this  day;  and  the  life  of 
this  land  of  ours  is  purer  and  sweeter  because  of 
the  fact  that  by  word  and  deed  this  Christian  gen- 
tleman and  scholar  put  his  impress  upon  the  souls 
of  his  students.  Bishop  Paine  was  one  of  the  men 
whose  very  excellences  might  disparage  him  in  the 
judgment  of  the  superficial.  He  was  so  rounded 
in  character  and  in  his  intellectual  make-up  that 
the  wonder-hunters  looked  elsewhere  for  mate- 
rial to  satisfy  their  morbid  cravings.  The  erratic 
genius  who  is  one  half  crank  and  the  other  half 
a  nondescript  mixture  will  make  more  noise  and 
oftener  get  his  name  into  men's  mouths  and  the 
newspapers,  but  when  he  dies  nothing  more  is  left 
of  him  than  of  the  meteors  that  stream  across  the 
November  heavens  at  night.  Men  like  Bishop 
Paine  shine  on  like  the  fixed  stars.  During  his 
lifetime  he  was  not  accredited  with  a  great  num- 
ber of  great  sermons — sermons  of  "phenomenal 
brilliancy,  profundity,  and  power,"  using  the  ste- 
reotyped phraseology — but  his  pulpit  work  was  uni- 
formly so  lofty  that  excellence  was  assumed  as  a 
matter  of  course.  As  a  bishop,  he  formed  correct 
judgments  of  men  and  things  and  did  what  was 
right  and  wise  so  habitually  that  it  was  only  after 
he  was  disabled  from  further  service  that  the 
Church  began  to  realize  his  worth.  This  man  of 
gentle  blood,  upon  whose  fine  natural  stock  was 
ingrafted  the  diviner  element  of  the  Christ-life, 
subsided  first  into  graceful  superannuation,  and 
then  went  up  to  be  forever  with  the  Lord  whom 
he  followed  so  long  with  loving  heart  and  steady 
steps. 

Bishop  John  Early  was  of  the  virile  old  Virginia 
clan  of  that  name,  a  clan  whose  spinality  stands 
all  tests.  General  Jubal  Early  was  one  of  these: 
he  who  refused  to  sign  the  ordinance  of  secession 


The  Old  Faciei.  175 

when  Virginia  went  out  of  the  Union,  and  also  re- 
fused to  surrender  when  the  Southern  Confedera- 
cy furled  its  banner  at  Appomattox.  They  are  a 
self-directing,  aggressive,  persistent  race,  hard  to 
turn  when  once  started  on  a  chosen  line  of  action. 
To  such  men  neutrality  is  incomprehensible  where 
anything  is  at  stake  worth  fighting  for,  and  retreat 
or  surrender  unthinkable  while  there  is  one  round 
of  ammunition  left.  All  the  diplomacy  Bishop 
Early  knew  and  practiced  was  the  diplomacy  of 
the  imperative  mood  on  the  basis  of  existing  facts. 
As  a  pastor,  he  saw  what  his  parishioners  ought  to 
do  and  led  them  to  do  it.  As  a  presiding  elder,  he 
planned  campaigns  of  church-building  and  soul- 
saving  and  executed  them  with  a  celerity  and  vig- 
or that  made  the  dawdling  and  timid  dizzy.  As  a 
connectional  Book  Agent,  he  exhibited  the  same 
business  qualities.  As  a  preacher,  he  was  simply 
John  Early:  there  was  none  exactly  like  him,  and 
he  left  no  successor.  He  had  a  mighty  faith  in 
God.  He  was  a  phenomenal  revivalist.  The 
saints  rallied  to  his  call,  and  sinners  capitulated. 
He  had  his  own  way  of  doing  things.  *' Touch 
her  if  you  dare!  "  he  said  to  an  irate  youth  who 
essayed  to  force  his  sister  from  the  altar  where  she 
was  kneeling  with  others  during  one  of  his  revival 
meetings.  The  youth  did  not  dare:  the  tone  and 
gesture  of  the  militant  elder  caused  a  sudden 
change  of  purpose.  The  tender  side  of  Bishop 
Early  never  left  him:  he  was  brother,  father, 
friend,  helper  wherever  brotherliness,  friendship, 
and  helpfulness  were  needed.  When  there  was  a 
fight  on  hand  he  was  not  dodging  in  the  rear,  but 
at  the  front  shooting  bullets ;  but  he  never  fired 
under  the  white  flag  nor  struck  an  unfair  blow. 
He  lived  to  be  an  old  man,  and  was  weary  toward 
the  end.     When  his  discharge  came  he  was  glad. 


176  Sunset  Views, 

George  F.  Pierce,  a  pulpit  monarch  and  master 
of  the  platform,  a  genius  without  eccentricity; 
Hubbard  H.  Kavanaugh,  whose  eloquence  was  a 
demonstration  of  the  supernatural  element  that  is 
imparted  to  human  thought  and  speech,  according 
to  the  promise  of  the  L»ord,  whose  humor  and  gen- 
tleness flooded  with  sunshine  all  the  circles  he 
touched  in  his  long  and  illustrious  career;  Hol- 
land N.  McTyeire,  ''a  leader  of  men  and  a  lover 
of  little  children,"  whose  greatness  will  grow  with 
the  coming  years  that  will  more  and  more  reveal 
the  far-reaching  wisdom  of  his  plans,  the  mighti- 
ness of  his  stroke,  and  the  singleness  of  his  aim; 
David  S.  Doggett,  "the  golden-mouthed "  ;  Enoch 
Marvin,  the  Missourian,  whose  career  shows  how 
the  divine  touch  transfigures  whomsoever  receives 
it,  who  stirred  the  hearts  of  the  multitudes  that 
hung  upon  his  lips  as  he  preached  a  full  gospel 
from  a  soul  fully  baptized  with  the  Holy  Ghost 
sent  down  from  heaven ;  William  Capers,  the  apos- 
tle of  negro  evangelization  in  the  South,  a  man 
who  in  the  social  circle  and  everywhere  exhibited 
the  polish  of  genuine  culture,  and  in  the  pulpit 
flamed  with  the  true  pentecostal  glory;  Linus 
Parker,  whose  life  was  an  evangelical  poem,  who 
wrote  editorials  noted  alike  for  classic  beauty 
and  spiritual  insight,  whose  sermons  were  flawless 
homiletic  crystals — all  these  belonged  to  the  old 
panel,  but  as  I  have  made  larger  mention  of  them 
elsewhere,  this  glance  will  suffice  here. 


A  MIDWINTER  MEDITATION. 


la 


A  MIDWINTER  MEDITATION. 

STEADY,  steady!  To-day,  January  23, 
1900,  the  suggestion  comes  to  me  that  the 
work  of  my  Hfe  is  done.  The  questions 
that  arise  in  my  mind  are  searching,  the 
feelings  aroused  are  unspeakably  solemn. 
The  work  of  my  life — what  has  been  its  prime  mo- 
tive and  inspiration?  Have  I  built  upon  the  true 
foundation  ?  The  words  of  the  apostle  Paul  in  the 
third  chapter  of  his  First  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians 
speak  to  my  inner  ear :  ' '  Other  foundation  can  no 
man  lay  than  that  is  laid,  which  is  Jesus  Christ. 
Now  if  any  man  build  upon  this  foundation  gold, 
silver,  precious  stones,  wood,  hay,  stubble;  every 
man's  work  shall  be  made  manifest:  for  the  da]; 
shall  declare  it,  because  it  shall  be  revealed  by  fire ; 
and  the  fire  shall  try  every  man's  work  of  what 
sort  it  is." 

Steady  1  We  all  know  that  the  last  stroke  must 
come  some  day.  But  to  me  this  has  hitherto  al- 
ways seemed  a  far-off  possibility.  I  sit  and  face 
the  issue,  knowing  that  here  is  a  blessing  for  me  if 
I  have  faith  to  grasp  it. 

Steady !  The  richest  blessing  that  can  come  to 
me  is  to  make  God's  will  my  will  in  all  things  at 
all  times.  The  habitudes  of  my  life  have  been 
such  as  to  make  this  test  a  test  indeed.- 

Softly!  The  blessing  is  here.  The  thought 
comes  to  me  to-day,  not  for  the  first  time,  that  by 
the  gracious  law  of  compensation  that  seems  to  run 
through  all  the  divine  administration  as  far  as  we 
can  trace  its  operation,  the  very  excess  of  pain 
blunts  its  edge;  the  very  extremity  of  weakness 

(179) 


i8o  Sunset  Views. 

tempers  the  consciousness  of  it.  Thus  thinking,  I 
open  a  book  lyingon  my  table — **The  Pilgrim's 
Progress" — and  read  John  Bunyan's  account  of 
Mr.  Standfast's  crossing  the  Jordan  at  a  time 
<'when  there  was  a  great  calm  in  the  river" — and 
it  seems  to  me  that  if  I  should  be  called  to  go  over 
to-day  there  would  be  no  storm  upon  its  banks. 
Thy  will  be  done,  O  God  !  The  foundation  stand- 
eth  sure. 

A  LITTLE  NOTE. 

I  WAS  tempted  by  my  love' of  the  men,  and  from 
force  of  habit  long  indulged,  to  give  in  these  pages 
a  brief  sketch  of  each  and  all  of  my  colleagues  in 
the  Board  of  Bishops  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church,  South.  But  I  forbear — saying  only  this 
word  from  the  depths  of  my  heart:  The  longer  and- 
more  fully  I  have  known  them — each  and  all — the 
more  absolute  has  been  my  confidence  in  them  and 
love  for  them.  Their  brotherly  kindness  to  me 
has  been  unvarying  and  unstinted. 

O.  P.  Fitzgerald. 


MY  IMPULSIVE  FRIEND 


MY  IMPULSIVE  FRIEND. 


BLESS  his  restless,  rapturous,  lowly,  lofty 
soul !  For  a  long  time  I  have  been  trying 
to  keep  up  with  him.  It  has  been  a  lively 
chase  that  he  has  led  me.  Not  for  the 
first  time,  the  thought  comes  to  me  here 
that  for  a  good  reason  I  understand  him  better 
than  do  others.  That  reason  is  found  in  the  fact 
that  there  is  between  us  some  similarity  of  disposi- 
tion. Among  my  readers  there  may  also  be  some 
persons  who  will  recognize  in  this  pen  sketch  some 
reflection  of  their  own  lineaments.  Along  this  line 
there  are  touches  of  nature  that  should  make  us  all 
kin.  The  pocket  glasses  carried  by  most  of  us  are 
usually  imperfect  reflectors:  the  light  is  not  clear 
when  self  is  the  medium.  The  practical,  plain- 
spoken  apostle  James  tells  us  that  a  man  beholding 
his  own  natural  face  in  a  glass  goeth  his  way,  and 
straightway  forgetteth  what  manner  of  man  he  is. 
My  impulsive  friend  belongs  to  a  large  family  con- 
nection, albeit  many  of  his  kinsfolk  do  not  recog- 
nize the  relationship. 

Blessings  on  him,  my  impulsive  friend,  who  is  a 
puzzle  to  all  that  know  him  and  a  mystery  unto 
himself!  Blessings  on  him  now,  as  the  sunset  of 
his  life  draws  near  !  There  is  a  mighty  comfort  in 
the  fact  that  he  is  in  the  keeping  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  who  is  the  one  only  infallible  Priest  of 
every  human  soul.     He  knows  our  frames. 

Blessings  on  my  impulsive  friend  as  the  shadows 
lengthen  !     The  thought  of  him  recalls  the  peculiar 


184  Simset  Views. 

prayer  attributed  to  a  dying  man  of  eccentric  dis- 
position. He  had  been  excitable,  impulsive,  way- 
ward, uneven  in  his  career,  and  he  knew  it  was  so. 
This  was  his  prayer:  '*  O  Lord,  thou  knowest  me 
better  than  I  know  myself.  I  cannot  tell  thee  any- 
thing that  is  new.  Thou  knowest  that  I  have  done 
many  things  in  my  time,  some  good  and  some  bad. 
Be  pleased,  O  Lord,  to  put  the  good  against  the 
bad,  and  so  balance  the  account."  Blessings  on 
the  erring,  perplexed  soul  of  such  a  man  as  this ! 
He  is  akin  to  every  one  of  us,  more  or  less.  The 
great  High  Priest  will  teach  us  a  wiser,  safer  way 
than  is  -suggested  by  such  a  prayer,  but  we  need 
not  play  the  Pharisee  by  drawing  around  us  the 
robes  of  self-righteousness  with  thankful  confes- 
sions of  our  own  superiority. 

My  impulsive  friend  has  been  a  perplexity  to  his 
friends  and  a  discouragement  to  himself  for  a  long, 
long  time.  But  he  has  been  gaining  ground. 
Comparing  himself  with  himself,  one  season  after 
another,  this  is  surely  true:  he  is  growing  in 
grace  and  in  the  knowledge  of  what  is  best  for  a 
man  to  know.  The  wisdom  which  is  from  above 
is  patient. 

My  impulsive  friend,  looking  upon  the  world  as 
it  is,  with  all  its  sorrow  and  pain,  its  darkness 
and  its  agonies,  its  disease  and  death,  has  at  times 
fallen  into  doubt  and  almost  sunk  into  despair. 
**What  is  the  use  of  contending  against  such 
odds?"  he  asks  himself.  '*The  mystery  of  it  all 
confounds  me ;  the  bitterness  of  it  is  too  much  for 
me."  So  he  says,  and  then  he  sings  a  pessimistic 
dirge  to  the  old  tune  that  was  used  by  Job  and  his 
successors— the  triumph  of  evil  over  good  in  this 
world.  In  this  frame  of  mind  he  declares  that  he 
is  sorry  that  he  was  ever  born  into  such  a  world, 
and  professes  that  he  would  be  glad  to  get  out  of 


My  Impulsive  Friend,  185 

the  whole  thing  if  he  could.  He  feels  that  it  is 
all  a  mockery  and  a  failure,  and  passionately  he 
avers  that  he  would  like  to  stand  from  under  the 
pressure  of  such  an  existence.  Soon  thereafter, 
perhaps  the  very  next  week,  he  reads  of  the  vic- 
tories of  truth  and  of  the  joys  enkindled  by  love 
in  past  times  and  in  his  own  day  here  and  there; 
as  he  reads  his  own  heart  catches  the  glow,  and 
he  feels  that  nothing  is  too  hard  for  God.  He  is 
then  ready  to  contract  for  the  conversion  of  the 
whole  world.  In  the  arms  of  love  that  encompass 
him  he  cannot  doubt  that  all  mankind  may  be 
clasped.  He  insists  on  the  practicability  of  the 
immediate  conversion  of  the  world,  enjoins  in  a 
most  literal  sense  obedience  to  the  command  to  do 
that  work  at  once — and  astonishes  himself  and 
others  by  what  he  undertakes  as  a  worker  or  giver 
while  in  this  frame  of  mind.  Bless  his  excitable 
spirit!  His  optimism  of  faith  is  genuine,  lifting 
him  to  a  height  where  he  sees  what  is  hidden  from 
souls  that  never  rise  above  the  dead  level  of  life's 
routine ;  nor  will  he  ever  again  descend  to  the  dis- 
mal sphere  in  which  the  Lord  is  judged  alone  by 
feeble  sense.  Thenceforth  he  watches  and  prays 
more  earnestly,  gaining  all  the  while  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  God  and  of  himself. 

My  impulsive  friend  is  not  lacking  in  courage 
and  combativeness.  These  qualities  do  not  al- 
ways go  together,  but  they  are  not  incompatible. 
My  friend  has  had  militant  moods  in  which  he 
seemed  anxious  without  delay  to  meet  and  van- 
quish all  the  foes  of  truth  and  righteousness,  or  to 
die  in  the  attempt.  While  in  such  a  mood  as  this, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  glory  in  tribulation, 
and  a  little  touch  of  martyrdom  had  a  charm  for 
his  imagination.  As  a  good  soldier  of  Jesus  Christ 
he  saw  at  such  times  the  near  approach  of  the 


1 86  Sunset  Views. 

promised  triumph  of  his  kingdom.  Most  earnestly 
he  insisted  on  obedience  to  marching  orders  from 
the  Captain  of  our  salvation,  and  was  ready  to 
lead  the  assault  on  the  strongholds  of  the  enemy. 
He  was  impatient  of  delay,  and  for  doubters  he 
felt  only  a  sort  of  impatient  pity.  After  one  of 
these  militant  moods  would  come  a  reaction.  An 
impulse  in  the  direction  of  what  seemed  to  him  a 
proper  humility  of  spirit  led  him  to  question  his 
own  fitness  for  any  place  in  the  army  of  the  Lord. 
To  be  a  doorkeeper  in  his  house  exceeded  his 
sense  of  merit.  This  feeling  of  unworthiness  led 
him  to  think  that  for  him  there  was  no  call  to 
leadership  or  aggressiveness  of  any  sort  in  the 
militant  Church.  It  then  seemed  to  him  that 
about  the  best  thing  he  could  do  for  the  cause 
would  be  to  stand  aside  where  he  could  not  do 
anything  to  confuse  the  counsel  or  to  obstruct  the 
movement  of  the  hosts  of  Israel.  But  he  did  not 
actually  retire  from  the  field  of  battle  while  he  was 
in  this  desponding  mood.  While  he  was  under  his 
courageous  and  aggressive  impulse  he  made  actu- 
al advance  into  the  enemy's  country,  and  therein 
helped  to  lift  up  standards  that  will  never  be  low- 
ered or  withdrawn. 

Bless  his  heart,  the  heart  of  my  impulsive 
brother!  Those  who  know  him  best  love  him 
most.  They  know  numberless  things  that  attest 
the  essential  trueness  of  his  great,  warm  heart, 
things  that  the  world  outside  can  never  know. 
They  see  that  as  the  years  go  by  his  spirit  is  more 
serene  and  his  gait  is  steadier.  His  impulses 
carry  him  more  and  more  in  one  direction — Christ- 
ward.  The  hair  of  his  head  grows  thinner  and 
whiter,  and  his  face  is  marked  by  the  tracks  of 
time  and  toil  and  suffering.  The  light  of  a  living 
hope  is  in  his  eye,  the  joy  of  a  love  that  abides  is 


My  Impulsive  Friend,  187 

in  his  heart.  He  is  more  and  more  tender  and 
patient  toward  souls  that  are  weak  in  the  faith. 
He  prays  more  and  is  less  inclined  to  disputation. 
Everything  we  know  concerning  him  encourages 
the  hope  that  he  wall  finish  his  course  with  joy. 

The  Shepherd  and  Bishop  of  souls  knows  how 
to  deal  with  impulsive  spirits.  In  the  fellowship 
that  awaits  the  redeemed,  which  will  be  illimitable 
in  duration,  we  will  celebrate  more  fitly  the  mercy 
that  saves  these  souls.  The  apostle  Paul  was 
meditating  on  this  line  of  thought  when  he  said: 
'*  We  all,  with  open  face  beholding  as  in  a  glass 
the  glory  of  the  Lord,  are  changed  into  the  same 
image  from  glory  to  glory,  even  as  by  the  Spirit 
of  the  Lord."  We  shall  be  like  him,  for  we  shall 
see  him  as  he  is.  The  patience  that  bore  with 
us,  the  wisdom  that  planned  and  managed  for  us, 
the  power  that  protected  us,  the  love  that  demon- 
strated to  us  that  we  had  a  Saviour  on  earth,  will 
up  there  culminate  in  a  supreme  glorification 
which  in  its  essential  elements  will  be  more  and 
more  an  assimilation. 


SOME  TYPES  OF  METHODIST  WOMEN. 


SOME  TYPES  OF  METHODIST  WOMEN. 

THERE  is  nothing  that  is  invidious  in  my 
intention  in  speaking  here  of  Methodist 
women  particularly.  There  are  other 
women  in  other  circles  just  like  these 
Methodist  women  that  I  have  known  more 
intimately  for  so  long  a  time.  Whatsoever  is  true, 
whatsoever  is  of  good  report  in  my  life,  has  come 
to  me  largely  through  the  ministry  of  these  blessed 
Methodist  women.  The  heaven  that  is  pictured 
in  my  hope,  and  to  which  I  feel  that  I  am  drawing 
nearer  day  by  day,  is  a  heaven  largely  of  their 
making,  and  of  which  they  will  surely  be  one  of 
the  chiefest  of  constituent  elements.  In  presenting 
these  types  of  our  elect  women,  I  call  no  names 
for  obvious  reasons;  but  if  some  of  them  should 
be  recognized  by  some  of  my  readers,  I  shall  not 
be  surprised  nor  displeased.  Many  of  our  best 
women  have  had  no  public  recognition ;  they  have 
shrunk  from  it  and  found  work  enough  to  keep 
them  busy  in  quieter  ways.  A  rather  prosy  poet 
has  said  something  of  "  stars  retired  in  solitudes  of 
ether,  not  of  essential  splendor  less,  though  shining 
unobserved,"  and  his  words  come  to  mind  in  this 
connection. 

There  comes  before  my  mind  one  of  these  truly 
elect  women:  a  queen  crowned  in  holy  beauty, 
the  wife  of  a  chief  pastor  of  the  Church.  She 
brings  with  her  an  atmosphere  of  worship,  diffus- 
ing the  fragrance  of  heaven.  Those  Western 
worshipers  breathed  more  quietly  after  her  coming 
and  were  readier  for  God's  message.  She  was 
tall  and    straight,  gentle    and    graceful  in  move- 

(•91) 


192  Sunset  Views, 

ment;  her  face  was  the*  face  of  a  saint  who  had 
done  some  thinking  and  had  known  some  suffer- 
ing in  her  day;  the  silvered  hair  and  noble  brow 
lent  to  her  head  the  halo  that  the  old  masters  put 
on  the  heads  of  the  holy  women  who  walked  with 
their  Lord  in  white.  Her  voice  was  low  and  soft. 
When  she  led  in  prayer  in  the  great  congregation, 
or  in  a  smaller  assembly  of  worshipers,  it  was  a 
leading  indeed — for  she  voiced  the  desire  of  souls 
in  a  way  that  showed  that  her  sympathies  touched 
her  fellow-worshipers  and  her  faith  touched  God 
at  the  same  moment.  The  polish  that  comes  from 
successive  generations  of  Christian  ladyhood,  and 
the  molding  that  comes  of  the  fusion  at  a  white 
heat  in  the  Master's  image,  made  her  a  living 
epistle  in  which  could  be  read  the  beauty  of  holi- 
ness, working  in  our  homes  the  miracles  of  grace 
that  verified  unto  our  faith  the  miracles  of  glory 
yet  to  be  revealed.  She  left  in  all  the  homes  she 
entered  a  memory  that  is  a  joy. 

Here  is -another  elect  sister,  also  the  wife  of  a 
chief  pastor  in  the  Church.  He  was  perhaps  the 
most  brilliant  and  popular  pulpit  orator  in  our  en- 
tire communion,  but  she  was  as  free  from  self- 
consciousness  as  a  violet  blooming  by  the  wayside. 
She  was  a  wife,  a  mother,  a  sister,  a  neighbor; 
and  in  all  these  relations  she  seemed  to  have  a  call 
to  gather  up  the  fragments  of  religious  oppor- 
tunity that  might  otherwise  be  lost.  To  her  hus- 
band, coming  from  his  public  duties  with  over- 
wrought nerves  and  exhausted  energy,  her  look, 
her  tone,  her  restfulness  of  spirit  were  as  a  quiet- 
ing potion.  She  was  a  mother  in  Israel  whose 
presence  made  it  easier  for  us  all  to  understand  the 
revelation  which  the  Heavenly  Father  has  given  of 
his  love  to  his  children.  When  in  troublous  times 
her  husband  was  called  to  walk  through  the  fires, 


Some  Types  of  Methodist  Women.  193 

she  walked  with  him  an  unconscious  heroine  who 
would  have  met  martyrdom  had  it  come  to  her 
in  the  way  of  duty  without  a  murmur  or  a  dread. 

Here  is  another  of  these  chosen  ones,  and  she 
too  was  a  chief  pastor's  helpmeet.  They  were 
truly  a  royal  pair,  using  the  word  to  describe 
what  is  noblest  in  man  and  what  is  loveliest  in 
woman.  Seeing  them  together,  it  was  easy  to  be- 
lieve that  their  union  was  predestined.  It  was  not 
a  union  of  opposite  qualities  that  balanced,  but  of 
tastes,  gifts,  and  convictions  that  drew  them  into 
the  same  paths  of  consecrated  service  for  their 
Lord  and  toward  each  other.  In  the  homes  of  the 
rich  she  moved  with  a  queenly  grace  all  her  own. 
In  the  roughest  log  cabin  or  board  shanty  she  bore 
herself  with  a  dignity  and  tactfulness  so  perfect 
that  poverty  claimed  kinship  with  her,  and  in  the 
rudest  circles  she  left  a  memory  of  lofty  Christian 
womanhood  that  never  left  them. 

There  was  one  of  these  elect  women  who  had  a 
gift  for  teaching  and  for  prayer,  and  who  went 
as  a  missionary  to  the  foreign  field,  and  gave  her- 
self wholly  to  the  Master's  service  that  struck 
only  that  one  note.  No  person  that  ever  met  her 
thought  of  her  in  connection  with  any  marriage 
save  her  union  with  the  Christ,  the  heavenly  Bride- 
groom, who  is  wedded  to  the  Church  bought  by 
his  own  blood.  Absolute  consecration  was  her 
message  to  the  Church.  That  she  should  become 
a  chronic  invalid,  and  suffer  intensely  from  bodily 
pain,  is  one  of  those  mysteries  of  divine  provi- 
dence that  confound  us  all  along  in  reading  the 
history  of  this  world.  She  suffered  long  and  in- 
tensely; but  she  kept  at  her  work  without  any  in- 
termission, uttering  no  word  of  complaint  from 
first  to  last.  The  eyes  of  the  whole  Church  were 
fixed  upon  her  as  from  day  to  day  were  read  the 

13 


194  Sunset  Views. 

reports  of  the  progress  of  her  malady;  the  object 
lesson  needed  by  all  was  furnished  by  her — the 
lesson  of  a  complete  consecration  to  one  work, 
and  that  consecration  maintained  with  unflinching 
courage  and  hopefulness,  feeling  that  while  flesh 
and  heart  were  failing  God  was  the  strength  of  her 
heart  and  would  be  her  portion  forever.  God's 
grace  was  sufficient  for  her  in  the  absence  of  al- 
most everything  to  which  our  poor  human  nature 
clings,  demonstrating  that  in  these  days  as  in 
earlier  times  we  may  have  such  a  measure  of  the 
love  of  God  as  gives  unbroken  peace  to  the  fully 
consecrated  soul. 

I  knew  an  elect  maiden  whose  gift  was  that  of 
holy  song,  and  she  stirred  up  the  gift  that  was  in 
her  in  psalms  and  hymns  and  spiritual  songs. 
The  melody  that  was  in  her  heart  tuned  her  voice, 
giving  it  a  quality  that  all  the  schools  of  the  world 
could  not  impart.  She  delighted  in  singing,  and 
her  singing  was  a  joy  to  all  who  heard.  At  the 
exact  moment  and  with  unfailing  adaptation  she 
was  always  ready  to  glorify  her  Lord  and  give  a 
special  blessing  to  a  band  of  believers  by  snatches 
of  holy  «ong,  that  still  echo  in  living  hearts.  This 
daughter  of  music  sang  her  life  song — and  then 
she  died.  I  think  of  her  in  that  city  of  God 
where  she  has  caught  the  melody  of  the  *'  new 
song"  sung  by  the  elders  having  harps  and  gold- 
en vials  full  of  odors  to  the  Lamb  that  was  slain, 
who  redeemed  us  to  God  by  his  blood  out  of 
every  kindred  and  tongue  and  nation. 

There  was  another  elect  woman  who  might  be 
classified  under  this  text  of  Scripture:  ''The 
Lord  loveth  whom  he  chasteneth."  She  ate  the 
bread  of  dependence,  and  had  not  where  to  lay 
her  head  except  as  it  was  the  gift  of  charity. 
The  property  that  had  been  possessed  by  her  fam- 


Some  Types  of  Methodist  Women.  195 

ily  had  been  swept  away  by  a  deluge  of  financial 
disaster.  She  was  an  invalid  without  hope  of 
cure,  a  sufferer  every  day  and  every  night.  She 
made  no  complaint.  Nothing  in  her  look  or  tone 
indicated  that  the  ugly  serpent,  Envy,  had  any 
hiding  place  in  her  trusting  heart.  Over  her 
wasted  features  a  deeper  spiritual  beauty  shone, 
and  all  who  saw  her  recognized  a  sufferer  who  had 
learned  her  lesson  in  communion  with  the  Man  of 
Sorrows. 

The  distinctive  fact  concerning  another  of  our 
women  was  that  she  gave,  and  gave  of  her  sub- 
stance to  glorify  God  and  to  bless  her  generation. 
A  look  into  her  face  was  a  luminous  comment  on 
this  text:  **The  Lord  loveth  a  cheerful  giver." 
That  love  irradiated  her  entire  personality.  It 
overflowed  her  in  the  buoyancy  of  spirit.  Follow- 
ing in  the  footsteps  of  her  Master,  she  went  about 
doing  good.  She  subsidized  all  the  charitable  or- 
ganizations within  reach,  and  made  many  like- 
minded  persons  coworkers  with  herself  in  the  dis- 
tribution of  her  money.  God  showed  his  love  for 
her  as  a  cheerful  giver,  I  may  reverently  suggest: 
First,  by  blessing  her  providentially  with  the  re- 
sources required  to  maintain  her  record  as  a  cheer- 
ful giver;  secondly,  by  actually  keeping  her  in  a 
cheerful  mood  that  was  as  a  stream  that  flowed 
from  an  unfailing  fountain ;  and  thirdly,  by  that 
exuberance  in  the  joy  of  her  beneficent  life  that 
makes  the  love  of  God  so  sweet  to  such  elect  souls. 
In  her  soul  the  kingdom  of  heaven  had  flowered  into 
that  joy  as  its  crowning  manifestation. 

The  image  of  one  morar  of  these  elect  women 
shapes  itself  on  this  page.  She  knew  joy  and 
grief,  ease  and  pain  in  their  turn.  She  was  tried 
by  every  test  in  her  life  of  prayer.  She  took  the 
word  of  God  as  a  light  to  her  path  and  a  lamp  to 


196  Sunset  Views. 

her  feet.  For  more  than  fifty  years  I  knew  her 
Hfe.  If  there  was  one  false  note  in  that  life  dur- 
ing all  that  time,  I  never  discovered  it.  This  leads 
me  to  say,  in  concluding  this  inadequate  chapter: 
The  gospel  of  Christ  that  so  exalts  and  beautifies 
human  lives  is  not  a  spent  force.  A  voice  whispers 
to  my  inner  ear:  The  heaven  that  is  being  pre- 
pared for  such  as  these  is  worth  striving  for. 


OUR  JEWISH  FRIENDS. 


OUR  JEWISH  FRIENDS. 


THE  greatest  name  of  antiquity  was  Moses, 
a  Jew.  The  greatest  name  of  our  dispen- 
sation is  Saul  of  Tarsus,  a  Jew.  The 
greatest  names  among  the  financiers  of 
this  generations  are  the  Rothschilds,  who 
are  Jews.  The  One  Name  that  is  above  every 
name  is  that  of  the  Galilean  Jesus,  a  Jew.  They 
are  the  chosen  people.  Reject  the  supernatural 
element  in  their  history,  and  you  will  find  it  inex- 
plicable. That  history  could  no  more  have  been 
invented  by  human  agency  than  could  such  a  na- 
tionality have  been  created  by  it.  The  history  of 
this  people  is  an  indisputable  record  of  wonders 
past  and  a  prophecy  of  w^onders  to  come  in  God's 
own  time  and  way.  Blindness,  we  know,  has 
happened  to  Israel  in  part  on  their  spiritual  side. 
But  there  is  no  other  race  that  keeps  up  more  fully 
with  the  procession  on  secular  lines  of  modern 
progress.  The  promise  of  their  coming  into  the 
Church  of  Christ  spans  their  stormy  sky  as  a  bow 
of  hope.  When  that  event  takes  place,  it  will  be 
the  crowning  event  in  the  process  of  the  world's 
evangelization.  Here  and  there  some  are  coming 
in  from  time  to  time,  and  everywhere  there  seems 
to  be  an  inquiring  and  receptive  spirit  spreading 
among  them  of  all  classes;  including  the  rabbis, 
that  minister  at  their  altars;  the  teachers,  who  hold 
places  in  our  institutions  of  learning;  the  mer- 
chants, who  get  their  full  share  of  the  trade  that  is 
going  on,  not  excepting  the  transactions  of  the 
stock  exchange,  where  all  sorts  of  men  in  this  our 
day  are  making  haste   to  be  rich,  and  where  so 

(199) 


2(X)  Sunset  Views, 

many  of  them  find  the  warnings  of  the  old  Book 
are  justified  by  the  result.  The  divine  providence 
that  took  Moses  and  Saul  and  Jesus  from  this 
race  knew  what  it  was  doing.  The  assurance  that 
in  the  fullness  of  the  Gentiles  these  Hebrew  chil- 
dren shall  be  '*  grafted  in"  means  nothing  less 
than  that  they  shall  be  an  integral  part  of  the  living 
Church,  and  that  will  mean  nothing  less  than  the 
arrival  of  the  latter-day  jubilee  for  the  kingdoms 
of  this  world. 

The  *' Zionist  Movement,"  so  called,  is  a 
significant  feature  of  our  times.  It  indicates  that 
the  promise  that  the  chosen  people  *' shall  return 
to  Zion  with  songs  and  everlasting  joy  upon  their 
heads  "  is  still  firmly  believed,  and  causes  some  of 
us  to  think  that  one  of  these  bright  mornings,  not 
far  off,  the  living  generation  of  men  on  the  earth 
will  wake  up  and  find  that  the  thing  has  been 
done.  Then  will  be  broken  the  back  of  unbelief. 
Doubters  will  then  be  ready  to  join  in  the  song: 
**The  Lord  reigneth;  let  the  earth  rejoice;  let 
the  multitude  of  isles  be  glad  thereof." 

There  is  no  room  for  us  to  disbelieve  the  ac- 
counts that  are  coming  to  us  of  the  cruelties 
against  the  Jews  by  the  Russian  authorities.  Those 
Russians  are  making  a  record  that  they  will  have 
to  answer  for.  They  are  sowing  bitter  wrongs; 
they  will  reap  retribution  accordingly.  If  they 
could  escape,  they  would  be  the  first  on  record. 
The  living  God  has  something  to  do  with  living 
men  and  nations.  He  has  reminded  us  that  those 
that  made  Israel  a  spoil  were  themselves  spoiled, 
and  those  that  led  them  into  captivity  were  them- 
selves carried  into  captivity.  In  the  sight  of  the 
nations  of  the  earth,  it  will  be  seen  again  that  **  He 
that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither  slumber  nor 
sleep."      He    will,    to   use    his    own    expression. 


Our  Jewish  Friends,  20i 

"make  bare  his  arm."  That  is  to  say,  the  devout 
and  inteUigent  spectator  of  current  events  will  rec- 
ognize in  them  the  work  of  God  just  as  truly  as 
he  sees  the  marks  of  his  doings  in  the  history  of 
earlier  times.  The  fifty-first  and  fifty-second 
chapters  of  Isaiah  strike  a  note  that  yield  sweet 
music  to  the  heart  of  a  believer:  *'  The  redeemed 
of  the  Lord  shall  return,  and  come  with  singing 
unto  Zion ;  and  everlasting  joy  shall  be  upon  their 
head:  they  shall  obtain  gladness  and  joy;  and 
sorrow  and  mourning  shall  flee  away . ' '  This  figure 
of  speech  cannot  mean  less  than  that  the  long  and 
troubled  night  of  delay  will  pass,  and  the  glad 
morning  wall  dawn.  There  are  streaks  in  the 
eastern  sky  now^  visible.  A  glad  song  will  soon 
be  sung  by  a  glad  world  as  promised. 


SUNSET  VIEWS  AT  SEABREEZE. 


SUNSET  VIEWS  AT  SEABREEZE. 

SEABREEZE  is  a  city  in  Florida  of  surpass- 
ing beauty.  It  has  the  sea  on  one  side  and 
an  arm  of  the  sea  on  the  other.  The  arm 
of  the  sea  is  so  extended  and  so  riverhke 
that  it  was  named  HaHf ax  River,  in  remem- 
brance of  an  Englishman  who  could  talk  and  trade 
and  diplomatize,  whose  name  has  been  given  to 
rivers,  cities,  counties,  and  entire  provinces  in 
America.  It  is  no  wonder  that  they  named  the 
place  Seabreeze.  Situated  as  it  is,  it  gets  the  sea 
air,  no  matter  which  way  the  wind  blows.  It 
comes  in  through  the  south  window  of  my  room 
this  February  day,  gently  rustling  the  curtains  and 
•bringing  to  our  ears  the  mocking  bird's  song,  that 
stirs  within  us  thoughts  both  sweet  and  sad,  like 
the  song  itself.  Men  and  women  who  had  money 
and  taste  (in  some  cases  crankiness)  have  come 
here  and  laid  off  a  city  with  broad  avenues,  built 
residences  of  palatial  splendor  and  cottages  of 
every  style  of  beauty,  leaving  the  live  oaks,  the 
pines,  and-  the  palms,  and  all  the  semi-tropical 
flora  in  its  wild  loveliness,  just  a  little  tamed  by 
man's  training  touch,  the  sea  moss  clinging  to  the 
gnarled  and  twisted  limbs  of  the  trees,  the  birds  in 
full  chorus  singing  their  songs,  the  same  as  they 
did  before  civilization  and  newspapers  were  ever 
heard  of  on  our  planet.  Beauty,  beauty  ever}^- 
where,  around,  above,  below  !  This  is  Seabreeze. 
The  sunset  views  at  Seabreeze  are  notable  for 
two  things:  vividness  and  vastness.  On  the  land- 
ward side  is  the  richness  of  the  coloring.  The 
sunset  clouds  look  like  chariots  of  fire  drawn  by 

(205) 


2o6  Sunset  Views. 

steeds  of  flame.  Intensity  belongs  to  this  region, 
where  the  flowers  literally  bloom  nearly  all  the 
time,  and  the  beams  ever  shine  or  nearly  so.  The 
sunset  sky,  as  we  see  it  across  the  broad,  bright 
river,  is  wondrous  in  its  beauty.  The  slanting 
sunbeams  turn  the  blue  waters  of  the  river  into 
silver  and  gold,  shining  like  the  apocalyptic  sea  of 
glass.  The  red  glow  of  the  lower  sky  gradually 
fades  into  fainter  colors  higher  up,  until  in  mid- 
heaven  the  white  masses  of  the  clouds  hang  like 
tents  in  which  might  be  encamped  all  the  heavenly 
hosts.  The  crowning  effect  of  the  sunsetting  at 
Seabreeze  is  seen  when  the  crimson  globe  in  the 
sky  duplicates  itself  in  the  water.  These  sunset 
views  at  Seabreeze  might  stagger  the  Muse  of 
John  Milton  or  strike  the  greatest  landscape 
painter  with  despair.  As  I  am  neither  a  poet  nor 
a  painter,  the  friendly  reader  will  not  be  over- 
critical. 

On  the  oceanward  side  is  the  vastness.  The 
ocean  is  the  biggest  thing  on  earth.  This  is  our 
first  thought  when  we  look  upon  it.  This  is  a  fa- 
vorite theme  of  the  poets.  The  Psalmist  speaks 
of  the  goodness  of  God  as  being  like  *'this  great 
and  wdde  sea."  No  other  figure  of  speech  would 
express  it  so  well.  The  sweetest  organ  tones  of 
Faber  roll  out  in  the  song  that  celebrates  '*the 
wideness  of  God's  mercy  like  the  wideness  of  the 
sea."  Great  and  wide— these  are  the  right  words. 
Its  wideness  stretches  away  and  away  as  we  look 
upon  it,  until  it  seems  to  be  lost  in  iHimitabifity. 
Its  greatness  overwhelms  us  as  we  stand  on  the 
beach  at  Seabreeze  and  watch  the  breakers  as 
they  come  rolling  in  with  their  combing  beauty 
and  thunderings  that  shake  the  solid  earth  beneath 
our  feet.  Gazing  along  this  shore  line  of  forty 
miles  of  beach,  we  seem  to  catch  the  rhythm  of  its 


Sunset  Views  at  Seabreeze.  207 

everlasting  roll.  The  strength  of  the  sea  is  ours, 
and  we  feel  as  if  we  might  have  taken  part  in  the 
song  when  the  morning  stars  sang  together  and  all 
the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy. 

As  I  write  these  last  w^ords  my  soul  is  pervaded 
with  a  gracious  consciousness  that,  through  the 
mercy  of  God,  as  a  child  of  God,  I  may  hope  to 
join  in  the  nobler,  sweeter  song  that  celebrates  his 
power  to  save.  Other  sunset  views  open  to  the  eye 
of  faith.  I  see  that  **  city  of  God,"  and  think  of 
the  meaning  of  the  words  that  describe  it.  The 
familiar  suggestion  comes  to  mind:  If  God  has 
made  so  beautiful  this  world  in  which  we  now  live, 
what  will  it  be  in  the  city  of  the  Great  King?  It  is 
a  place,  not  merely  a  state.  It  is  more  real  than 
these  things  that  perish  with  the  using  can  be.  It 
is  described  in  the  Bible  as  ''  a  city  that  hath  foun- 
dations." This  means  something  worth  the  tell- 
ing, but  we  know  not  specially  what  it  is.  The 
main  idea  is  stability,  and  that  is  the  chief  thing. 
That  is  what  we  long  for.  What  we  long  for  we 
shall  get;  what  we  get  we  shall  keep.  This  suf- 
fices. The  negative  side  of  what  is  promised  is 
given  in  the  words  of  the  old  song  which  says  that 
there  "sickness,  sorrow,  pain,  and  death  are  felt 
and  feared  no  more."  The  positive  side  includes 
all  we  could  ask:  the  promise  is  that  no  good  thing 
shall  be  withheld.  If  children,  then  heirs,  "heirs 
of  God,  and  joint  heirs  with  Christ" — these  are 
the  very  words  of  that  promise.  What  it  means  is 
more  than  we  can  take  in  now:  all  good  things, 
beginning  with  the  Lord  himself,  who  is  our  por- 
tion. 

The  sunset  views  given  me  here  at  Seabreeze 
might  dazzle  and  blind  me  but  for  the  fact  that  I 
have  been  vouchsafed  a  fuller  perception  of  the 
fatherhood    of  God    and    of   the    brotherhood    of 


2o8  Sunset  Views. 

Christ.  The  heirship  and  joint  heirship  mean 
everything  that  is  large  and  lasting.  There  is 
room  for  all  and  love  for  all.  The  gates  of  that 
city  of  God  shall  not  be  shut  at  all  by  day,  and 
there  is  no  night  there.  Forever  with  the  Lord 
and  with  one  another — that  is  the  promise.  Where 
he  is,  there  we  shall  be  also.  The  apostle  tells  us : 
"Them  also  which  sleep  in  Jesus  will  God  bring 
with  him."  (i  Thess.  iv.  14.)  Does  this  mean 
recognition?  To  me  in  my  sunset  view  it  looks 
that  way;  and  we  may  be  sure  that  we  shall  know 
more,  and  not  love  less,  up  there.  If  I  get  safe 
home,  I  hope  to  meet  some  who  have  helped  me  on 
the  way.  May  I  hope  to  meet  some  that  I  have 
helped?  If  I  carry  with  me  thither  the  human 
heart  that  throbs  within  me  now,  there  is  one  face 
the  missing  of  which  would  cast  a  shadow  upon 
the  brightness  of  the  place.  Away  with  the 
thought. 

My  sunset  views  at  Seabreeze  this  sweet  Sab- 
bath day,  when  the  sunshine  is  on  river  and  sea, 
kindle  a  glow  in  my  soul  that  strengthens  my  hope 
that  I  shall  not  fail  to  reach  that  home  prepared 
for  the  family  of  God.  Old  friends  that  have 
"read  after  me"  for  a  long  time  will  lift  for  me  a 
prayer  as  they  read  what  is  herein  written. 


THE  NOVEL-READING  PEST. 
14 


THE  NOVEL-READING  PEST. 


IT  was  said  by  Lamartine :  **The  novel  may 
become  the  opium  of  the  West."  The  more 
the  thoughtful  reader  thinks  of  it,  the  more 
serious  will  this  matter  become. 

Novels,  novels,  novels !  Novels  day  and 
night,  novels  all  the  week,  novels  on  Sunday. 
Novels  that  are  sinister,  novels  that  are  silly. 
Novels  that  whet  the  appetites,  novels  that  inflame 
the  passions.  Novels  that  furnish  the  feeble- 
minded the  literary  diet  that  confirms  their  morbid- 
ness and  perpetuates  their  imbecility.  The  out- 
put of  new  English  novels  is  said  to  be  four  or 
hve  daily  for  every  day  in  the  year.  Notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  so  many  of  them  are  vile 
and  silly,  outraging  decency  and  overtaxing  cre- 
dulity, they  somehow  find  publishers  and  readers 
in  unexpected  quarters.  Not  long  ago  several 
booksellers  in  one  of  our  largest  cities  were  in- 
dicted and  fined  for  selhng  obscene  books — mostly 
translations  from  the  French.  Impure  they  were 
admitted  to  be,  but  they  were  also  bright  and 
scholarly,  it  was  contended,  and  therefore  to  be 
tolerated.  The  old-fashioned  presiding  judge,  we 
were  glad  to  see,  took  a  different  view  of  the 
matter. 

The  habitual  novel  reader — the  mental  opium 
eater — reaches  a  degree  of  imbecihty  almost  be- 
yond description.  The  blood-and-thunder  novel 
cannot  be  made  too  silly  for  its  patrons,  anymore 
than  the  confirmed  opium  eater  can  satisfy  him- 
self by  indulging  his  unnatural  appetite  for  the 
drug  that  has  ruined  him.     The  novel  reader  did 

(211) 


212  Sunset  Views. 

not  start  on  this  line  with  the  intention  to  go  so 
far.  The  novel  that  is  mixed  in  its  quality — 
with  heroic  incident  or  generous  sentiment  on  one 
page,  and  falseness  and  foulness  on  another — is 
the  novel  that  should  be  prohibited  with  a  vigilance 
that  does  not  sleep  and  a  determination  that  does 
not  falter.  In  1879  I  said:  *' It  is  a  fact  that 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  our  youths  of  both  sexes 
have  placed  within  their  reach  a  sort  of  literature 
that  is  calculated  to  teach  them  that  lust,  murder, 
and  theft  are  normal  conditions  of  human  life,  and 
that  purity,  love,  and  honor  are  only  obsolete  su- 
perstitions to  be  laughed  at  by  the  gay  and  pitied 
by  the  wise.  It  is  a  fact  that  this  literature  is  sap- 
ping the  foundations  of  social  virtue  in  this  coun- 
try, lowering  the  moral  standard  of  the  mature, 
and  infusing  deadly  poison  into  the  minds  of  the 
young.  It  is  a  fact  that  good  men  and  women 
seem  to  be  asleep,  doing  nothing  to  arrest  this 
monstrous  evil,  and  in  many  places  actually  pat- 
ronizing these  poisonous  publications.  It  is  a  fact 
that  you  may  meet  some  of  the  worst  books  in 
some  of  the  best  families." 

What  I  said  then  I  would  say  now  as  to  the  rem- 
edy for  this  deadly  evil.  The  remedy  is  a  home 
censorship.  Every  head  of  a  family  can  and  ought 
to  assume  the  office  of  a  censor.  Let  every 
mother  and  father  see  to  it  that  none  but  clean  lit- 
erature enters  their  houses.  Let  every  good  cit- 
izen see  to  it  that  not  a  dollar  of  his  money  goes 
for  publications  that  pander  to  depraved  tastes 
and  prurient  curiosity.  The  withdrawal  by  the 
respectable  element  of  society  of  their  patronage 
from  all  publications  save  those  whose  pages  are 
pure  would  do  much  to  mitigate  this  great  evil. 
The  purveyors  of  corrupt  literature  would  be  left 
to  be  supported  by  such  as   stand   on   their  own 


Th  e  Nov  el- Reading  Pest .  213 

low  moral  level.  Look  to  your  libraries,  and  cast 
from  your  homes  these  serpents  that  coil  in  your 
bookshelves  or  upon  your  center  tables.  Thus 
may  be  maintained  in  our  favored  land  the  free- 
dom of  the  press  with  the  conservation  of  its  bless- 
ings in  fullest  measure. 


A  MORE  EXCELLENT  WAY. 


A  MORE  EXCELLENT  WAY. 


AT  one  time  I  found  myself  sliding  into  an 
ugly  habit — the  habit  of  watching  to  de- 
tect the  blemishes  and  weaknesses  of  my 
brethren.  I  awoke  to  the  realization  of 
the  fact  that  this  habit  was  growing  on  me, 
and  that  it  was  doing  me  harm.  About  this  time 
one  day  I  happened  to  hear  a  remark  from  a  big- 
framed,  deep-voiced  brother  toward  whom  I  had 
(perhaps  to  a  large  extent  unconsciously)  suf- 
fered myself  to  indulge  a  growing  coolness.  On 
the  occasion  referred  to  he  was  speaking  to 
another  party  of  the  conduct  of  a  mutual  ac- 
quaintance who  had,  so  it  seemed,  an  undue 
eagerness  in  exposing  the  weakness  of  another 
person  who  belonged  to  his  own  circle  and  for 
whom  he  professed  friendship.  I  was  not  eaves- 
dropping the  conversation,  but  I  could  not  avoid 
the  hearing  of  this  remark  from  my  large  and 
loud  brother:  *' There  was  no  good  purpose  to 
be  effected  by  his  exposure  of  a  brother's  error; 
and  considering  their  relations  to  each  other,  he 
ought  rather  to  have  felt  like  going  backward  and 
spreading  over  him  a  covering  to  hide  his  infirmity." 
That  was  the  substance  of  what  he  said,  and  there 
was  an  expression  on  his  face  and  an  emphasis  in 
his  tone  that  impressed  me  deeply.  Then  and 
there  I  got  a  new  view  of  this  man  and  a  better 
feeling  toward  him  until  his  sudden  death  brought 
out  facts  that  revealed  to  me  why  it  was  that  he 
had  so  many  and  such  warm  friends  among  good 
men  and  women.     In  him  there  was  a  strain  of 

(217) 


2i8  Sunset  Views. 

genuine  magnanimity  that  found  expression  when 
it  was  in  order. 

A  man  may  persuade  himself  that  he  is  a  pubHc 
censor  when  he  is  only  a  common  scold.  Think- 
ing this  matter  over,  I  concluded  that  it  would  be 
both  safer  and  pleasanter  for  me  to  spend  more 
time  in  self-examination,  and  in  trying  to  do  some 
good  for  all  the  persons  I  could  reach  in  any  way, 
than  in  picking  flaws  in  the  record  and  character 
of  my  fellow-men. 

Among  the  notable  men  in  the  Church  there  was 
one  who,  as  he  increased  in  years  and  grew  in 
reputation,  reminded  me  more  and  more  of  the  ex- 
pression used  in  the  Second  Epistle  of  Peter  and 
the  Epistle  of  Jude  describing  persons  who  in- 
dulged in  "great  swelling  words  of  vanity."  That 
meant  that  they  were  pretentious  persons.  Now, 
this  man  of  whom  I  am  here  speaking  did  actually 
seem  to  "swell"  with  conscious  self-importance 
and  a  sense  of  superiority  to  his  brethren.  His 
manner  was  an  offense  unto  me  and  others.  Aft- 
erwards it  so  happened  that  we  were  thrown  to- 
gether more  intimately,  and  I  discovered  that  the 
deepening  of  his  chest  tones  was  owing  to  a  phys- 
ical rather  than  a  spiritual  cause :  it  was  owing  to 
the  fact  that  he  was  growing  in  fatness  as  he  grew 
in  years.  From  this  same  cause  he  was  made  to 
look  unduly  pompous  and  aggressive.  Knowing 
him  thenceforth  as  he  was,  taking  some  pains  to 
get  closer  to  him  for  the  Master's  sake,  I  learned 
how  I  had  misjudged  a  good  man.  He  was  guile- 
less as  a  child.  He  did  not  seek  the  chief  places 
in  the  synagogue,  some  of  which  were  given  to 
him ;  but  he  was  ready  at  all  times  to  bear  the 
heaviest  burden  or  the  bitterest  cross.  His  heart 
was  true,  his  gifts  were  rich  and  varied;  and  he 
had  a  capacity  for  winning  affection  for  himself 


A  More  Excellent  Way.  219 

that  no  cold-blooded  idolater  of  self  or  '*  swelling  " 
mass  of  verbosity  and  vainglory  ever  possessed. 
In  my  association  with  him  I  got  for  myself  an  in- 
terpretation of  John  vii.  24:  "Judge  not  accord- 
*  ing  to  the  appearance,  but  judge  righteous  judg- 
ment." 

Among  my  acquaintances  in  a  certain  place 
there  was  a  high-spirited,  great-hearted  woman 
who  was  a  vicarious  sufferer,  thus  sharing  the  fate 
that  has  overtaken  so  many  elect  spirits  in  this 
strange  world.  Circumstances  not  necessary  to 
mention  made  social  intercourse  between  this  lady 
and  myself  infrequent  and  formal.  Acting  under 
the  impulse  mentioned  in  the  opening  of  this  chap- 
ter, one  day  I  made  her  a  visit  with  a  chosen  text 
of  Scripture  in  my  mind,  and  with  a  great  desire 
in  my  heart  for  the  blessing  of  God.  She  received 
me  with  ladylike  civility,  but  not  very  warmly.  I 
delivered  the  message  I  had  brought  from  the 
word  of  God,  told  her  how  I  felt,  and  then  we 
kneeled  and  prayed  together.  It  was  the  gate  of 
heaven  !  The  blessing  asked  for  came.  Thence- 
forth there  was  no  shadow  of  cloud  between  her 
soul  and  mine.  When  we  parted  at  the  gate,  the 
look  was  on  her  face  which  I  hope  to  see  when  we 
meet  inside  that  city  whose  gates  are  never  shut 
by  day  or  by  night.  The  traits  of  the  gracious 
personality  I  looked  for  in  this  fine-toned  sufferer 
I  found. 

The  new  world  of  friendly  optimism  that  opened 
to  me  with  the  entrance  of  the  thought  mentioned 
at  the  opening  of  this  chapter  is  as  bright  as  the 
morning  hills  beneath  unclouded  skies. 


MONEY-MAKERS. 


MONEY-MAKERS. 


THE  money-making  gift  is  just  as  distinctly 
a  gift  from  God  as  any  other.  There  is 
no  more  reason  why  a  man  should  make  a 
selfish  use  of  this  gift  than  that  he  should 
make  a  selfish  use  of  the  gift  of  muscular 
strength.  It  is  as  bad  to  cheat  a  brother  as  it  is  to 
beat  him.  Abraham,  the  richest  man  of  his  gen- 
eration, was  "  the  friend  of  God  "  in  a  sense  spe- 
cially gracious.  The  beggar  who  died  at  the  rich 
man's  gate  in  another  age  of  the  world  was  carried 
by  the  angels  to  Abraham's  bosom  as  a  special  to- 
ken of  God's  favor,  and  as  a  proof  that  the  rich 
and  the  poor  may  be  equally  the  objects  of  his  love. 
In  my  boyhood  days  I  knew  a  boy  who  had  the 
money-making  gift,  and  exercised  it  in  a  way  that 
was  amusing.  He  loved  to  trade,  and  was  always 
ready  to  sell  anything  he  had,  or  to  swap  pocket 
knives,  marbles,  fishing  tackle,  firearms,  or  any- 
thing belonging  to  him.  Invariably  he  got  the 
best  of  all  his  trading.  When  he  got  through  with 
a  series  of  these  exchanges  with  another  boy,  the 
rule  was  that  he  had  all,  and  the  other  had  noth- 
ing. When  that  boy  with  the  money-making  gift 
grew  up  to  manhood,  he  opened  a  store  in  the  vil- 
lage where  he  lived;  he  cultivated  a  farm,  and 
made  steady  gains  from  both  store  and  farm,  en- 
larging their  operations  until  before  middle  age  he 
had  absorbed  the  most  of  what  had  belonged  to  all 
his  neighbors.  He  was  a  money-maker  only.  He 
had  no  public  spirit;  he  had  no  philanthropy.  He 
never  married,  giving  as  his  reason  for  choosing 

(223) 


2  24  Stmset  Views, 

the  unmarried  state  the  fact  that  it  was  more  eco- 
nomical. He  never  made  a  reHgious  profession — 
largely,  no  doubt,  for  the  same  reason.  He  made 
money,  and  was  satisfied  therewith — and  when  he 
died  he  dropped  out  of  sight  and  was  forgotten. 

I  knew  a  black  man,  a  slave  on  a  Southern  plan- 
tation in  the  old  days,  who  was  a  money-maker. 
He  was  Uncle  Cato,  classically  named  after  the 
fashion  of  that  time  and  region.  He  was  richly 
equipped  for  his  vocation  as  a  money-maker.  He 
worked  a  tobacco  patch  on  his  own  account,  and 
by  an  infallible  instinct  knew  when  was  the  best 
time  to  sell  his  crop  for  the  highest  price.  He 
reared  poultry  to  sell,  and  had  what  seemed  to  be 
the  happiest  luck  therein.  His  week  day  nights 
and  his  Sundays  he  utilized  in  the  manufacture  of 
wooden  ware  with  his  own  hands,  which  had  a 
sure  selling  quality,  and  which  he  always  sold 
for  cash.  On  what  was  thought  to  be  his  death- 
bed he  revealed  to  a  black  woman  who  had  been 
kind  to  him  in  his  sickness  the  spot  where  he  had 
secreted  his  hoarded  treasures.  But  rallying 
somewhat  subsequently,  he  found  that  he  had 
strength  enough  to  rise  from  his  bed,  hurry  forth, 
and  remove  his  treasure  to  another  spot,  where  it 
was  never  found.  The  old  black  money-maker's 
secret  died  with  him. 

I  knew  in  California  a  man  who  was  a  money- 
maker whose  methods  seemed  to  be  as  unfailing 
as  they  were  unique.  He  dealt  mainly  in  mines 
and  mining  stocks.  Though  of  limited  education, 
his  transactions  were  conducted  on  a  scale  so 
large  that  the  average  financiers  with  whom  he 
dealt  grew  dizzy  in  dealing  with  him.  *'  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,"  he  once  said  to  me  in  a  familiar 
talk,  *'but  when  I  see  a  body  of  ore  of  any  sort, 
something  always  tells  me  what  it  is;   and  I  have 


Money-Makers.  225 

never  yet  been  misled."  He  was  a  money-maker 
truly.  Some  persons  who  knew  him  said  he  had 
genius.  When  he  died  he  left  so  many  milHons 
of  dollars  that  to  guess  at  the  figures  might  expose 
one  to  the  suspicion  of  lunacy. 

I  knew  another  man  in  California  who  quietly 
got  possession  of  the  sources  of  water  supply  for 
a  big  city,  and  coined  money  so  swiftly  and  on  a 
scale  so  large  that  the  story  of  it  would  read  like 
a  tale  of  magic.  He  was  a  money-maker,  and 
seemed  to  be  satisfied  with  handling  his  millions 
upon  millions  until  he  had  to  let  go  in  death,  and 
the  law  divided  them  among  the  legatees.  In  the 
litigation  that  took  place  after  his  death  it  was 
shown  that  the  largest  money-maker  may  be  to  the 
last  degree  a  friendless  and  lonely  man. 

I  knew  a  man  who  happened  to  hit  upon  a  name 
that  was  so  felicitous  for  a  much-used  article  of 
diet  that  the  first  thing  he  knew  the  sale  of  it  went 
far  beyond  anything  he  had  looked  for.  He  was 
a  money-maker  of  the  genuine  stamp.  The  more 
he  got  the  more  he  wanted.  He  was  a  money- 
maker, and  was  satisfied  to  be  only  that.  He  kept 
a  steady  gait  until  he  died,  and  was  grasping  for 
more  when  the  end  came. 

I  have  known  other  money-makers  who  seemed 
to  be  acting  according  to  John  Wesley's  advice: 
**  Make  all  you  can;  save  all  you  can;  give  all 
you  can."  Doubtless  the  most  of  these  persons 
had  made  a  study  of  Bible-teaching  on  this  subject 
of  money-making.  It  is  likely  that  they  had  taken 
to  heart  that  pointed  saying:  *'  The  love  of  money 
is  the  root  of  all  evil."  They  understood  it  to 
mean  that  there  is  no  form  of  wrongdoing  or  folly 
that  may  not  be  called  into  action  through  this  pas- 
sion, the  love  of  money.  In  reading  the  history  of 
the  Church  and  of  the  world  the}^  saw  abundant  il- 

15 


226  Sunset  Views, 

lustrations  of  the  truth  of  the  saying.  Looking 
around  them  upon  the  living  world,  and  looking 
into  their  own  hearts,  they  saw  that  it  was  a  matter 
of  the  deepest  personal  concern  to  each  and  all. 
They  were  affected  solemnly  by  the  saying  of  our 
Lord  himself,  that  it  would  be  "  easier  for  a  camel 
to  go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle  than  for  a  rich 
man  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  In 
view  of  this  saying,  they  asked:  "Who  then  can 
be  saved?  "  The  consummate  wisdom  of  the  an- 
swer they  had  considered.  That  answer  did  not 
lessen  the  terribleness  of  the  warning  on  the  one 
hand,  nor  did  it  furnish  any  ground  for  a  mere 
mone3^-maker  to  hope  for  heaven  on  easier  terms. 
But  it  magnified  the  grace  of  God  in  reminding  us 
that  it  was  equal  to  the  accomplishment  of  even  this 
miracle — the  miracle  of  saving  a  rich  man  who 
deals  honestly  with  himself  and  with  God.  Such 
a  man  is  encouraged  to  believe  that  he  can  '*  make 
friends  of  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness;"  he 
is  comforted  with  the  assurance  that  there  is  no 
necessity  that  he  should  set  his  heart  upon  increas- 
ing riches.  With  God  this  is  a  possibility — but 
how  difficult,  and  how  rarely  realized,  God  only 
knows.  Read  the  entire  passage  in  i  Timothy  vi.  9, 
10:  *'  But  they  that  will  be  rich  fall  into  tempta- 
tion and  a  snare,  and  into  many  foolish  and  hurtful 
lusts,  which  drown  men  in  destruction  and  perdi- 
tion. For  the  love  of  money  is  the  root  of  all 
evil:  which  while  some  coveted  after,  they  have 
erred  from  the  faith,  and  pierced  themselves 
through  with  many  sorrows."  As  I  read  the. 
words  I  recall  the  wrecks  I  have  met  in  the  circle 
where  all  that  makes  human  lives  worth  living  has 
been  sold  for  money.  Those  that  have  escaped 
have  cause  for  eternal  gratitude. 


TOM  REED. 


TOM  REED. 

THEY  made  him  Speaker  of  the  House  of 
Representatives.  They  talked  of  him  for 
President  of  the  United  States  of  America. 
But  he  died  one  day,  and  is  now  remem- 
bered more  on  account  of  the  pleasantries 
that  still  circulate  in  his  name  than  because  of  any 
great  measures  of  statesmanship  that  he  fathered. 
Physically  he  looked  as  sound  and  ruddy  as  a 
Rhode  Island  greening  apple.  He  enjoyed  his 
own  jokes  to  the  utmost.  His  humor  was  of  the 
contagious  sort:  he  set  a  fashion  for  almost  the  en- 
tire political  world.  He  was  good  nature  itself. 
Because  of  him  there  is  a  gentler  and  brighter 
tone  to  this  hour  in  all  the  political  circles  of  this 
land.  *'From  California,  did  you  say?"  so  he 
said  to  me  when  introduced  to  him  by  Congress- 
man Gaines,  of  Tennessee.  *'  Go  right  up  to  my 
place  in  the  gallery,  take  possession  in  California's 
name,  and  stay  as  long  as  you  choose."  Whether 
or  not  he  meant  all  he  said,  it  was  very  pleasant 
for  the  time  being,  and  makes  a  pleasant  memory 
in  perpetuity.  Whenever  I  see  an  allusion  to  Tom 
Reed  in  our  periodical  literature,  his  mighty  frame 
seems  to  tower  close  by  and  the  warmth  of  his 
greeting  comes  back  in  a  way  that  renews  his 
title  to  the  epithet,  prince  of  good  fellows. 

Patriotism  of  the  unchangingly  hopeful  and  op- 
timistic type  was  constitutional  with  Tom  Reed. 
He  **  enjoyed  himself,"  literally.  He  enjoyed  his 
eating  and  drinking.  Throughout  the  social  cir- 
cles he  touched  he  diffused  a  spirit  so  mellow  and 

(229) 


230  ,  Sunset  Views, 

shed  a  light  so  bright  that  he  became  more  and 
more  a  distinct  and  fascinating  element  in  the  life 
of  our  capital  city.  The  Californians  were  very 
fond  of  Tom  Reed.  He  was  a  man  after  their 
own  heart.  He  was  continually  doing  good  by 
stealth.  Under  cover  of  a  gentle  satire,  at  which 
the  victim  himself  was  compelled  to  smile,  the 
burly  philosopher  would  conceal  his  neighborly 
tracks.  Which  is  the  same  as  to  say  that  Tom 
Reed  was  one  of  those  wholesome,  sunshiny  men 
that  help  to  leaven  successive  generations  with  the 
leaven  of  a  humanness  that  makes  it  worth  while 
to  know  them  and  helps  to  relegate  misanthropy 
and  cynicism  to  the  weakest  and  wickedest  souls 
that  groan  and  grovel  in  the  darkness  in  which 
they  enwrap  their  lives. 


OUR  NEW  YEAR  MOTTO. 


OUR  NEW  YEAR  MOTTO. 

SOMETIME  ago  it  was  proposed  in  our 
Nashville  Preachers'  Meeting  to  adopt  as 
its  motto  for  1905  the  words:  *'Let  broth- 
erly love  continue."  The  response  was 
hearty  and  unanimous.  A  sweet  and  ten- 
der feeling  seemed  to  pervade  the  service.  Two 
of  our  brethren  who  were  present  and  voted  for 
the  adoption  of  this  motto  for  the  new  year — 
Brothers  Barbee  and  Amis — have  since  left  us. 
They  now  know  more  of  what  it  means  than  ever 
before.  They  feel  more  of  the  joy  of  unbroken 
fellowship.  If  they  could  now  speak  to  us  across 
the  silence  and  mystery,  tender  and  solemn  would 
be  their  words.  The  two  worlds  touch  in  my  med- 
itations this  New  Year's  morning  as  I  look  from 
my  window  south  upon  these  Tennessee  hills,  and 
think  of  what  it  is  to  be  at  home  in  the  fairer 
clime  on  high,  seen  by  the  eye  of  faith. 

But  stop  a  moment!  It  may  be  that  some  of  us 
need  another  word  first.  It  may  be  that  some  of 
us  have  taken  with  us  into,  the  new  year  aliena- 
tions, coldnesses,  misjudgments,  '*envyings,"  or 
suchlike.  We  are  great  self-deceivers.  Without 
watchfulness  and  prayer  we  are  liable  to  yield  to 
such  temptations,  with  which  we  shall  assuredly 
be  assailed.  The  *'  other  word  "  needed  first  to 
be  spoken  to  us  may  be  this:  Let  brotherly  love 
be  received  as  the  gift  of  God,  or  in  its  renewal. 
Before  continuance  comes  impartation.  To  talk 
of  the  continuance  of  brotherly  love  to  one  who 
has  never  felt  it  is  to  speak  in  an  unknown  tongue; 

(233) 


234  Sunset  Views. 

to  speak  of  its  continuance  to  one  who  has  lost  it 
is  to  miss  the  word  in  season  for  that  soul.  The 
word  in  season  for  all  such  persons  was  spoken  by 
the  Master  himself:  *'  If  thou  bring  thy  gift  to  the 
altar,  and  there  rememberest  that  thy  brother  hath 
aught  against  thee ;  leave  there  thy  gift  before  the 
altar,  and  go  thy  way;  first  be  reconciled  to  thy 
brother,  and  then  come  and  offer  thy  gift."  (Matt. 
V.  23,  24. )  Lord  Jesus,  help  us  to  lay  these  words 
of  thine  to  heart  at  this  time,  when  we  are  making 
our  Christmas  offerings  and  New  Year's  resolu- 
tions ! 

The  point  is,  do  not  hesitate  or  delay  to  make 
the  first  overture  toward  reconciliation  or  closer 
fellowship.  Do  not  stand  on  any  notion  of  dignity 
that  may  be  sacrificed.  Do  not  hold  back  from 
making  advance  approaches  for  fear  of  meeting  a 
rebuff.  Do  not  fail  to  act  upon  these  most  gra- 
cious impulses  from  a  dread  of  being  misunder- 
stood and  misrepresented .  All  such  flimsy  excuses 
should  be  laid  aside;  all  such  inferior  motives 
should  be  swept  away  as  by  the  breath  of  the  Lord. 
I  knew  two  brethren,  ministers  of  the  gospel,  who 
differed  in  temperament  and  opinion  to  such  an 
extent  as  to  make  their  intercourse  constrained 
and  cold.  One  of  these  brethren,  thinking  some 
such  thoughts  as  are  herewith  suggested,  resolved 
that  he  would  seek  a  closer  approach  and  sweeter 
fellowship.  The  result  was  a  surprise  and  a  bless- 
ing for  both.  There  was  a  little  dubiousness  at 
first,  but  it  melted  away  in  the  warmth  of  personal 
association.  They  found  that  they  could  work 
together  for  the  cause  they  loved ;  that  they  could 
rejoice  together  with  them  that  rejoiced,  and  weep 
together  with  them  that  wept.  They  found  agree- 
ment in  the  essential  truths  of  religion,  and  no  oc- 
casion to  discuss  any  matter  of  difference.     They 


Our  New  Tear  Motto,  235 

felt  the  peace  of  God,  whose  banner  over  them 
was  love.  More  and  more  their  hearts  were  at- 
tuned for  the  fellowship  of  the  militant  Church, 
to  be  renewed  through  grace  abiding  and  abound- 
ing in  the  world  of  spirits.  And  another  result 
seemed  to  follow,  in  fulfillment  of  the  scriptural 
declaration :  * '  We  know  that  we  have  passed  from 
death  unto  life,  because  we  love  the  brethren." 
The  currents  of  a  heavenly  life  pour  into  souls 
thus  opened  in  floods  that  fill  them  to  overflow- 
ing. The  new  life  becomes  more  and  more  a  pos- 
itive experience ;  they  know,  they  feel,  they  testify. 
Brotherly  love  established  and  continuing  means 
all  this :  the  influx  of  the  love  of  God  that  is  full 
and  free,  the  witness  of  the  Spirit  to  the  blessed 
fact,  and  a  growth  in  all  the  elements  of  spiritual 
life  in  the  Church  of  God. 

Pass  on  the  motto  for  the  new  year,  the  watch- 
word all  along  the  lines:  '*  Let  brotherly  love 
continue !  " 


THE  FUTURE  SAFE. 


THE  FUTURE  SAFE. 

THE  past  at  least  is  safe  " — so  wrote  a  friend 
to  another  at  a  time  when  at  a  distance 
from  each  other  there  seemed  to  be  dan- 
ger of  misunderstanding.  To  them  the 
past  was  very  sacred,  and  it  proved  to 
be  indeed  very  safe.  They  had  every  reason  for 
cherishing  the  friendship  which  had  given  them 
strength  and  joy  so  many  years.  They  saw  and 
felt  that  they  had  not  the  shadow  of  reason  for 
ahenation.  The  result  was,  that  they  clasped 
hands  in  a  fresh  covenant  and  their  hearts  flowed 
together  in  the  fullness  of  a  joy  too  deep  for  words. 
Friendship  means  more  to  them  now  than  ever 
before. 

Another  thought  comes  to  me  with  such  force 
that  it  asks  expression.  It  is  the  future  that  is  safe. 
All  the  future  belongs  to  us  all.  In  a  sense  deeper, 
with  a  meaning  fuller  than  we  usually  realize,  we 
accept  the  word  of  God;  "  Now  is  the  accepted 
time."  Blunders,  delays,  backslidings,  losses  you 
may  have  had.  You  may  be  despondent;  and  if 
despondent,  you  are  weak.  A  disheartened  man 
repels  the  help  he  needs,  and  invites  the  enemy 
he  has  most  cause  to  dread  and  shun.  The  word 
I  have  in  my  heart  for  every  reader  is  this:  The 
future  is  yours.  Knock,  and  its  door  of  hope  will 
open  to  you  now.  You  will  not  fail  if  you  will 
only  try:  your  Helper  is  almighty.  But  your  case 
is  peculiar,  you  say?  Yes,  my  friend;  every  case 
is  peculiar.  We  know  very  little  of  each  other, 
but  every  heart  is  open  to  Him  with  whom  we  have 
to  do.     Whatever  may  be  your  past  experience, 

(239) 


240  Sunset  Views. 

trust  and  try  and  your  future  is  safe.  There  is  no 
provision  for  doubt  in  this  gospel,  and  among  the 
multiplied  millions  of  human  souls,  each  with  its 
special  needs,  not  one  is  exempted  from  its  gra- 
cious opportunity.  Your  future  is  safe  if  you  will 
have  it  so.  Our  gospel  is  a  glad  gospel.  It  is  the 
future  that  may  be  safe  for  us  all. 


BIRTHDAY  REFLECTIONS. 

i6 


BIRTHDAY  REFLECTIONS. 

IF  I   should  live    another    week    (August   24, 
1904),  I  shall  celebrate  my  seventy-fifth  birth- 
day.    Naturally  I  have  had  some  serious  and 
solemn   reflections  concerning  death.     More 
than  once   its   mystery  has  seemed  to  be  at 
hand  for  me.     Let  me  think  aloud  through  this 
medium  for  a  little  while,  expressing  three  thoughts 
that  are  in  my  mind. 

1.  Death  is  inevitable.  Every  succeeding  birth- 
day brings  it  nearer.  But  what  consolation  is 
there  in  this  fact  of  the  certainty  of  death?  Just 
this:  That  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom  to  accept  the 
inevitable  with  all  possible  submission. 

2.  Death  is  the  only  portal  that  opens  for  us 
into  higher  and  happier  conditions.  It  is  but 
another  and  necessary  step  in  the  progress  of 
our  being.  There  is  a  law  here:  Death  is  neces- 
sary to  progress.  The  more  study  we  give  to  the 
subject,  the  farther  we  look,  the  more  we  shall  be 
struck  with  the  evidences  of  the  operation  of  this 
law  on  this  plane  of  being. 

3.  The  operation  of  this  law  terminates  with 
this  state  of  being  here  on  earth.  Some  re- 
cent philosophers,  so  called,  have  suggested  that 
there  may  be  many  deaths  and  births  to  the  same 
spirit.  I  am  glad  that  a  voice  from  heaven  has 
spoken,  telHng  us  that  death  cannot  follow  us 
thither.  O,  blessed  be  God  for  this  truth!  If 
there  were  no  other  revelation  in  the  Bible,  I  would 
be  ready  to  fall  down  and  worship  God,  who  hath 
brought  life  and  immortality  to  light  in  the  gospel 
of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.     It  sounds  like  celestial 

(243) 


2  4-4  Sufiset  Views. 

music  in  the  depths  of  my  soul  as  I  read  the  words : 
*'  I  heard  a  great  voice  out  of  heaven  saying,  Be- 
hold, the  tabernacle  of  God  is  with  men,  and  he 
will  dwell  with  them,  and  they  shall  be  his  people, 
and  God  himself  shall  be  with  them,  and  be  their 
God.  And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their 
eyes;  and  there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither 
sorrow,  nor  crying,  neither  shall  there  be  any 
more  pain :  for  the  former  things  are  passed  away.'* 
(Rev.  xxi.  3,  4.) 

This  is  about  the  sum  of  my  birthday  reflections. 
Knowledge  without  ignorance;  pleasure  without 
pain ;  progress  without  intermission ;  life  beyond 
the  reach  of  death.  All  this  beyond  a  doubt,  and 
not  far  off.  These  reflections  make  a  birthday 
that  is  both  glad  and  solemn  for  me. 


MARK  HANNA  ASTONISHED. 


MARK  HANNA  ASTONISHED. 

THE  one  interview  I  had  with  the  one  and 
only  Mark  Hanna  I  have  never  forgotten. 
It  was  during  the  second  campaign  of 
William  McKinley  for  the  Presidency  of 
these  United  States.  Mr.  Hanna  was  chair- 
man of  the  National  Committee  of  his  party.  Per- 
haps no  other  man  in  the  nation  kept  his  finger  so 
nicely  laid  on  the  pulses  of  political  parties  as  Mr. 
Hanna.  He  said  but  little  concerning  practical 
politics,  but  from  time  to  time  dropped  an  expres- 
sion that  indicated  that  he  knew  all  the  mysteries 
of  that  sort  of  patriotism  that  gets  its  expenses 
paid  from  the  office  seekers  or  office  holders.  He 
was  a  likable  man  as  he  appeared  to  me  that  day. 
What  a  comfortable,  thick-set,  deep-chested,  fun- 
loving,  sharp-sighted  man  he  was !  He  was  a  stu- 
dent of  human  nature,  and  he  enjoyed  the  game 
he  was  playing.  It  seemed  almost  impossible  that 
the  news  of  his  death,  not  long  afterwards,  could 
be  true.  Vitality  radiated  from  his  personality  at 
every  point.  He  was  on  his  way  to  Thomasville, 
Ga.,  where  he  had  passed  the  previous  winter. 
He  w^as  making  a  special  study  of  the  negro  ques- 
tion on  the  ground  in  their  very  midst.  He  was 
free  to  admit  that  as  yet  he  had  the  very  alphabet 
of  this  question  to  learn.  The  scenes  he  witnessed 
during  the  protracted  and  rather  boisterous  reli- 
gious excitement  in  the  leading  colored  congrega- 
tion of  Thomasville  he  recited  with  much  animation. 
Night  after  night  he  went  to  the  church  where  the 
meeting  was  held,  took  a  seat  in  the  gallery,  and 
looked  on  with  ever-increasing  astonishment  at  the 

(H7) 


248  Sunset  Views. 

fluency  of  the  speakers,  the  fervor  of  the  prayers, 
the  melody  of  the  songs,  and  the  picturesqueness 
of  the  tableaux  exhibited  in  their  bodily  exercises. 
*'They  actually  climbed  the  pillars  that  supported 
the  galleries  of  that  church,  so  great  was  their  ex- 
citement," said  Mr.  Hanna.  I  narrated  to  him 
some  of  my  own  experiences  in  the  capacity  of 
pastor  or  assistant  pastor  of  colored  Churches  in 
Macon  and  Savannah.  He  listened  with  every 
appearance  of  genuine  interest.  His  face  glowed, 
and  he  punctured  my  narration  with  observations 
that  showed  a  specially  ready  grasp  of  all  the 
points  in  the  negro  problem  that  touched  the  foun- 
tains of  feeling  or  of  mirth  in  his  nature.  Mark 
Hanna  had  no  element  of  fanaticism  in  his  com- 
position. Had  he  lived,  he  would  have  brought  to 
bear  in  national  affairs  a  shrewd,  cool  conservatism 
that  would  have  been  a  potent  factor  in  the  pro- 
motion of  the  generous  policy  now  so  happily 
prevailing  and  increasing  in  all  parts  of  our  re- 
united nation.  It  would  seem  that  Mark  Hanna 
ought  to  have  lived.  If  ever  I  saw  a  man  that 
seemed  to  be  planned  and  built  for  long  life,  he 
was  that  man — with  a  powerful  physical  constitu- 
tion, and  the  philosophic,  easy-going  temper  to 
match.  When  I  expressed  the  satisfaction  I  felt, 
in  common  with  all  sorts  of  Tennesseeans,  at  the 
appointment  by  President  McKinley  of'  Gen. 
Luke  Wright  to  office  in  the  Philippines,  Mr. 
Hanna  seemed  to  run  over  with  joy.  He  did  not 
conceal  from  me  the  fact  that  the  policy  of  which 
General  Wright's  appointment  was  a  part  was 
adopted  with  his  hearty  concurrence,  and  would 
be  upheld  by  him  with  enthusiasm  against  all  op- 
posers,  should  opposers  show  themselves  anywhere 
within  the  lines  of  his  party.  Mark  Hanna  was 
astonished  at  himself,  seeing  how  much  he  had  to 


Mark  Hanna  Astonished.  249 

learn  concerning  this  negro  question  with  regard 
to  which  the  average  American  politician  is  in  the 
habit  of  claiming  infallibility  and  dashing  forward 
with  all  the  confidence  begotten  of  ignorance. 
And  he  was  one  of  a  class,  already  large  and  rap- 
idly increasing,  a  class  that  had  eliminated  the 
larger  part  of  the  difficulty  of  its  settlement  by 
simply  holding  that  rational  and  friendly  methods 
of  adjustment  were  within  reach.  Rational  and 
friendly — these  are  the  words  that  flowed  from  my 
pen  point.  And  this  is  my  testimony  as  a  Christian 
man,  as  a  citizen  of  a  great  nation  whose  brightest 
chapters  of  history  we  may  hope  are  yet  to  be 
written. 


OUR  IRISH  FRIENDS. 


OUR  IRISH  FRIENDS. 

THERE  is  nothing  going  on  in  this  world 
worthy  of  notice,  good  or  bad,  that  our 
Irish  friends  have  not  a  hand  in  it.  They 
have  had  places  in  the  pictures  whenever 
and  wherever  the  champions  of  liberty 
have  been  painted.  They  are  good  fighters,  more 
than  ready  to  enter  the  lists  when  the  occasion 
comes.  Many  of  them,  in  the  -language  of  an 
Irish  historian,  **  would  rather  die  martyrs  than 
live  saints."  It  was  a  typical  Irishman  who,  when 
questioned  as  to  the  origin  of  a  contusion  on  his 
head,  replied:  *' I  have  had  a  discussion — wid 
sticks."  That  was  the  kind  of  controversy  sought 
by  the  Irishman  of  the  old  school  who  at  fair  time 
expressed  the  hope  that  **some  jintleman  would 
be  kind  enough  to  tr-r-ead  on  his  coat  tail." 

The  Irishman  is  likewise  a  lively  voter.  But  it 
is  a  slander  to  say  that  his  motto  with  regard  to  the 
suffrage  is  *' early  and  often."  The  long  strug- 
gle the  Irish  have  made  for  their  political  rights  in 
the  old  country  has  taught  them  that  eternal  vig- 
ilance is  the  price  of  liberty,  and  led  them  to  see 
to  it  that  their  civil  privileges  are  not  left  to  be 
measured  out  to  them  or  withheld  from  them  at 
the  option  of  any  other  class  of  fellow-citizens. 
The  Irishman  has  a  hand  in  all  that  transpires  in 
America.  If  he  knows  anything,  he  knows  polit- 
ical economy.  His  native  gift  of  eloquence  is  as- 
tonishing. Rouse  him  at  midnight,  with  only  one 
eye  half  open,  and  call  on  him  for  a  patriotic  ebul- 
lition, and  you  will  find  that  he  is  able  and  willing 
to  give  a  reason  for  the  political  faith  he  has  es- 

(253) 


25  f  Sunset  Views. 

poused.  As  an  officeholder,  he  is  not  backward 
norimpracticable.  As  a  practical  politician,  he  does 
his  full  share  of  the  work  of  governing  this  coun- 
try. When  a  man  is  wanted  to  do  full  work  for 
this  party  or  that,  and  to  meet  with  a  bold 
front  the  approach  of  any  enemy,  they  try  to  find 
an  Irishman  therefor.  As  a  soldier  of  fortune,  so 
called,  the  Irishman  gets  in  place  as  soon  as  the 
first,  and  may  be  depended  on  to  do  what  is  pos- 
sible to  courage  and  magnanimity.  (If  any  reader 
is  disposed  to  contend  that  among  our  Irish  friends 
there  are  men  who  would  have  to  be  described  in 
different  language,  so  be  it.  These  exceptions  are 
all  the  more  notable,  because  the  Irishman  is  no 
halfway  traveler,  go  which  way  he  will.) 

Best  of  all,  our  Irish  friends  are  doing  the  full- 
est share  of  the  everyday  toil  that  is  subduing  this 
continent  to  the  reign  of  civilization.  An  Irish 
sot  is  now  and  then  encountered:  some  Irishmen 
belong  to  that  class  of  men  who  know  for  them- 
selves no  middle  ground  between  total  abstinence 
and  drunkenness.  But  an  Irish  loafer,  the  man 
who  rusts  out  or  dry  rots  in  idleness,  would  be  a 
strange  discovery  in  most  localities  in  our  country. 
The  typical  Irishman  is  a  busy  man.  Rather  than 
be  unemployed,  he  will  at  times  even  sell  whisky 
or  be  a  petty  politician.  The  petty  politician  and 
the  whisky  seller  are  sometimes  united  in  the 
same  person:  the  two  callings  have  affinities  that 
are  unmistakable.  The  aggregate  result  of  this 
combination  exhibits  human  nature  at  its  very 
worst  this  side  of  the  lowest  depths.  The  venal 
politician  and  the  vender  of  vile  whisky  or  beer 
is  restricted  to  no  one  nationality.  And  it  remains 
true  in  general  that  the  Irishman  is  a  worker. 
Where  they  are  grading  railroad  beds,  you  will 
find  him;    where   they  are  quarrying  stone,  you 


Our  Irish  Friends,  255 

will  find  him ;  where  they  are  clearing  the  forest, 
you  will  find  him;  where  they  are  herding  cattle 
or  sheep,  you  will  find  him;  where  they  are  driv- 
ing wheeled  vehicles,  you  will  find  him;  where 
pedagogy  is  going  on  in  any  of  its  grades,  you  will 
find  him;  where  they  call  for  men  to  minister  at 
the  altars  of  the  sanctuary  for  nominal  pay,  and 
with  a  glad  heart,  you  will  find  him. 


TRANSFIGURED  SINGERS. 
17 


TRANSFIGURED  SINGERS. 

I  HAVE  seen  them  and  heard  them  from 
Hogan's  Creek  to  the  Golden  Gate,  from 
Morehead's  Mill  in  North  Carolina  to  Mount 
Shasta  in  California.  Through  the  grace  of 
God,  abiding  and  abounding,  I  hope  to  see 
millions  of  transfigured  singers  in  one  company, 
whose  song  we  are  told  will  celebrate  the  love 
that  gave  itself  for  us  that  we  might  know  the 
power  of  Christ's  resurrection  and  be  made  kings 
and  priests  unto  God  and  his  Father.  The  pic- 
tures of  these  transfigured  singers  are  framed  in 
tender  and  holy  associations  and  are  hung  in  the 
halls  of  memory.  What  our  Heavenly  Father 
thinks  of  music  may  be  understood  by  calling  to 
mind  what  he  has  said  of  it  in  connection  with  the 
worship  and  spiritual  interests  of  his  militant 
Church,  and  of  the  rapture  and  glory  of  the 
Church  triumphant.  God's  love  of  music  runs 
through  every  part  of  his  physical  creation,  from 
the  song  of  the  mocking  bird  to  the  majestic  roll 
of  the  breakers  on  the  ocean's  shore. 

One  transfigured  singer  seen  and  heard  by  me 
in  my  boyhood  I  have  never  forgotten.  It  was  at 
a  funeral  service  on  a  bright  Sunday  morning,  the 
burial  of  Uncle  Tommy  Weatherford,  the  patriarch 
of  Methodism  in  all  that  Hogan's  Creek  country. 
He  was  a  sturdy  old  saint,  sweet-toned  and  strong, 
and  his  neighbors  of  all  denominations  and  those 
of  no  denomination  turned  out  to  attend  his  burial. 
The  house,  which  stood  on  the  top  of  a  high  hill 
above  the  creek,  was  crowded,  and  the  front  yard 
was  filled  with  people.     The  preacher,  Jehu  Hank, 

(259) 


26o  Sunset  Views. 

stood  in  the  door  and  sang  the  famihar  old  hymn, 
*'  On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand."  He  was  a 
notable  singer,  and  his  name  was  a  household 
word  among  that  people.  There  was  power  in  his 
voice  and  a  wonderful  clearness,  and  that  subtle 
touch  that  takes  hold  of  the  hearts  of  listeners 
wherever  it  is  met  with.  It  was  a  literal  transfig- 
uration to  my  boyish  eyes,  as  he  sang  with  shining 
face  of  the  land  where  the  flowers  never  fade, 
where  there  is  everlasting  spring,  and  in  an  ecstasy 
of  holy  enthusiasm  he  proclaimed  as  it  were  in  a 
musical  shout  that  from  that  shore  he  could  not  be 
frightened  by  death's  cold  flood.  Not  a  word  of 
the  sermon  do  I  remember:  no  doubt  it  was  what 
a  funeral  sermon  should  be — sympathetic,  tender, 
and  sensible.  But  that  song — from  it  I  got  the 
touch  that  transfigured  the  man  of  God  as  he  sang, 
and  its  music  has  never  left  me  during  all  the 
years  that  have  intervened. 

Of  George  Eckley,  the  musical  black  prodigy 
of  Macon  in  Georgia,  I  have  spoken  elsewhere. 
He  was  normally  as  homely  as  homeliness  itself — 
squatty,  with  heavy  features,  flat  nose,  short  fore- 
head and  low,  and  eyes  that  in  repose  were  inno- 
cent of  any  expression  beyond  what  was  merely 
animal.  He  was  a  transfigured  singer  never  to  be 
forgotten  after  you  had  once  heard  him.  He  led 
the  singing  among  those  Methodist  negroes  in  Ma- 
con to  whom  I  then  held  a  sort  of  semipastoral 
relation.  He  carried  everything  with  him  as  a 
leader  in  holy  song.  The  volume  of  his  voice  was 
great,  its  melody  had  a  quality  and  a  charm  that 
were  all  his  own.  He  led,  and  all  of  that  swarthy 
congregation  followed  both  of  necessity  and  from 
choice.  Perfect  in  time,  overwhelming  in  power, 
and  almost  miraculous  in  its  effect,  when  his 
voice  led  nobody  questioned  his   supremacy  as  a 


Transfigured  Singers,  261 

leader  in  the  songs  of  Zion.  He  surely  *' led  " 
the  singing  of  that  dark-complexioned  and  enthu- 
siastic people  who  surely  beHeved  in  a  religion  of 
melody  here  and  of  joy  hereafter.  Some  of 
George  Eckley's  choruses  are  echoing  in  my 
memory  now  as  I  pen  these  lines  fifty  years  after- 
wards. The  chord  that  he  struck  never  failed  to 
respond.  If  he  led  in  a  penitential  hymn,  sin- 
ners would  be  softened  and  melted  while  he  sang. 
If  he  sang  of  the  joys  of  religion  here  on  earth, 
or  of  the  glories  that  awaited  believers  in  heaven, 
the  rapture  that  was  in  his  song  made  it  kindling 
and  catching.  He  did  not  sing  himself  into  ac- 
tual physical  good  looks:  that  was  an  impossibil- 
ity. But  the  swelling  of  his  bosom  under  the 
afflatus  of  holy  song,  the  shining  of  his  black  and 
homely  face,  the  victorious  sweep  of  his  voice, 
the  rapt  expression  of  the  whole  man,  wrought  a 
visible  change  in  him  then  and  there  that  made  it 
easy  for  all  of  us  who  then  saw  and  heard  him  to 
lift  our  thought  and  faith  to  that  world  where  that 
which  is  sown  in  weakness  shall  be  raised  in 
power.  The  transfiguration  that  awaits  George 
Eckley  and  his  dark-skinned  fellow-worshipers  in 
heaven  will  be  a  sight  worth  seeing.  They  will 
all  be  singers  up  there,  and  their  music  will  be 
worth  hearing.  And  as  there  will  be  nothing  there 
to  hurt  or  destroy,  it  will  be  good  to  be  there, 
whether  coming  from  the  East  or  the  West,  the 
North  or  the  South,  or  the  isles  of  the  sea. 

When  I  think  or  speak  of  transfigured  sinners, 
the  image  of  the  gentle  Clara  Whitehurst  comes 
before  my  mind.  Child  of  music  and  of  sorrow, 
her  song  on  earth  took  the  minor  key  before  she 
left  us  to  go  up  yonder  to  the  home  where  there 
is  no  sorrow  or  pain,  and  where  the  discords  of 
earth    are   past,   and  where    the    highest   joys   of 


262  Stmsct  Views. 

which  she  sang  while  she  was  with  us  are  glad  re- 
alities. At  my  old  McKendree  class  meetings  in 
Nashville  she  was  my  helper  in  holy  song.  When' 
music  was  prescribed  as  a  regular  part  in  the  or- 
der of  divine  worship,  it  was  an  expression  of  a 
special  mercy  to  souls  like  hers.  Her  mind  was 
attuned  to  holy  thought  as  truly  as  her  voice  was 
attuned  to  holy  song.  She  loved  to  sing,  and  it 
gave  her  joy  to  express  in  song  her  love  for  God. 
She  was  always  ready :  her  spiritual  intuitions  were 
so  quick  and  so  acute,  and  her  knowledge  of 
Christian  hymnology  was  so  extensive  and  accu- 
rate, that  her  little  snatches  of  sacred  song  were 
invariably  delightful  and  good  to  the  use  of  edify- 
ing. A  recipe  for  a  good  class  meeting  or  other 
social  Christian  service  of  similar  sort  might  be 
given  here  in  words  like  these :  A  judicious  choice 
of  Holy  Scripture,  a  common  sense  interpretation 
of  it,  a  glow  of  spiritual  fervor  that  infuses  into 
all  the  attendants  the  same  spirit,  prayers  in  the 
same  temper,  and  not  too  long,  the  whole  inter- 
spersed with  sacred  song  to  rgatch  the  sacred  mean- 
ing, the  purpose  of  the  entire  service.  Under  the 
influence  of  exercises  like  these,  the  whole  of  our 
company  of  Christian  friends  underwent  a  gen- 
uine transfiguration  ;  the  lines  made  by  care  or  toil 
or  trouble  of  any  sort  were  smoothed  away,  and 
the  love  of  God  in  their  trusting  souls  put  into  their 
mortal  bodies  something  of  what  awaits  them,  as 
they  fondly  hope,  where  they  will  see  the  King  in 
his  beauty  as  the  center  and  joy  of  the  multitude 
of  transfigured  singers  that  no  man  can  number. 

In  that  same  little  band  of  Christian  friends,  the 
McKendree  class  meeting,  there  was  another  lady 
whose  chief  passion  was  a  love  of  beauty.  She 
was  an  artist  who  could  put  form  and  color  into 
her  visions  or  conceptions  of  the  beautiful.     Her 


T^'cinsfigured  Singers,  263 

maiden  surname  was  one  honored  in  art  circles 
everywhere.  She  was  also  a  musician  of  unusual 
gifts.  When  under  the  afflatus  of  holy  song  she 
was  a  transfigured  believer!  There  was  a  look  in 
her  face  and  a  tone  in  her  voice  that  belonged  to 
the  unseen  sphere  that  lies  so  close  to  this  and  yet 
is  so  truly  a  mystery  to  us  all.  Half  playfully  she 
once  said  to  me  in  later  years:  *'  When  a  child,  I 
always  wished  to  be  a  beautiful  angel,  and  that 
wish  is  still  in  my  heart."  Bless  that  yearning, 
faithful  spirit  that  held  fast  its  early  ideal  and  long- 
ing for  the  beauty  that  time  can  neither  dim  nor  de- 
stroy !  She  had  been  for  many  years  an  unceas- 
ing sufferer  from  bodily  pain  that  had  left  its  marks 
upon  her  body.  But  she  remained  true  to  her 
lofty  ideal  and  holy  desire,  and  already  there  was 
a  partial  fulfillment  of  her  prayer.  She  is  taking 
on  a  spiritual  beauty  that  increases  as  she  draws 
nearer  to  that  spiritual  realm.  She  has  taken  the 
prescription  I  have  ventured  in  playful  earnestness 
to  offer  to  her  and  other  elect  souls  who  have  been 
called  to  walk  in  this  path  of  pain:  *' Three  parts 
of  patience,  and  then — one  more  part  of  patience.'* 
The  heaven  of  the  Bible,  the  heaven  of  our  hopes, 
is  a  heaven  of  beauty.  Other  members  of  that 
circle  had  the  gift  of  music  and  the  longing  for 
beauty  unmarred  and  unending.  Their  names 
are  written  in  God's  book  of  remembrance. 

Some  readers  may  be  inclined  to  smile  when 
they  see  here  the  name  of  Andrew  M.  Bailey 
among  the  names  of  the  transfigured  singers.  The 
old  Californians  will  call  him  to  mind.  He  was  a 
rugged,  angular,  self-assertive  man,  a  wonder  to 
those  early  Californians,  and  an  aggravation  to 
many  of  them.  I  never  knew  a  man  who  knew 
more  certainly  whom  and  what  he  did  not  like.  I 
never  knew  a  man  who  had  greater  power  of  in- 


264  Sunset  Views, 

dicating  his  dislikes  by  facial  expression.  There 
is  something  comic  in  the  notion  of  the  transfigura- 
tion of  this  old  California  pioneer  preacher, 
Brother  Andrew  M.  Bailey.  But  I  have  seen 
that  miracle  wrought.  By  common  consent  he  led 
the  singing  at  the  Santa  Clara  camp  meetings  held 
away  back  in  the  fifties  and  sixties.  That  won- 
derful voice  of  his !  I  seem  to  hear  it  as  I  write 
these  words — clear  as  a  bugle,  sweet  as  a  woman's. 
Acres  of  the  early  settlers,  with  their  families, 
gathered  under  the  evergreen  oaks  and  the  syc- 
amores on  Sunday  morning,  would  crowd  around 
the  **  preacher's  stand"  as  closely  as  they  could 
as.  with  eyes  closed  and  swinging  of  the  body, 
Wother  Bailey  sang  of  heaven.  And  as  he  sang 
of  that  *'  sun-bright  clime,"  with  its  larger  life,  its 
reunions,  its  sacred  memories,  and  its  unending 
glories,  the  rugged  features  relaxed  and  seemed 
to  catch  a  touch  of  the  light  from  above.  There 
was  a  transfigured  singer!  Men  and  women  who 
remembered  Kavanaugh  and  Welburn  and  Deer- 
ing  and  Browder  and  Morton  and  Linn,  and  the 
rest  of  the  leaders  and  fathers  of  the  Church  in  the 
old  times  and  in  their  old  homes  *'  back  in  the 
States,"  were  melted  into  tenderness  under  the 
spell  of  Bailey's  song.  Their  children,  seeing 
and  hearing  this  transfigured  singer,  received 
gracious  suggestions  they  can  never  lose.  When 
Brother  Bailey  came  to  Nashville  a  few  years  ago 
he  was  an  old  man,  worn  and  weary  and  scarred 
by  the  wounds  received  in  life's  battles.  But  he 
was  chastened  in  look  and  speech.  When  he  told 
me  that  his  object  in  coming  to  Nashville  was  to 
make  a  gift  of  ten  thousand  dollars  to  the  cause  of 
missions,  placing  the  money  in  the  hands  of  the 
ofl[icers  of  the  Missionary  Society  of  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church,  South,  the  Church  of  his  first 


Transfigured  Singers.  265 

and  his  latest  affection,  I  was  listening  to  and  look- 
ing upon  a  transfigured  singer. 

This  musical  gift,  the  ability  to  make  music,  was 
not  bestowed  upon  me.  The  love  of  it  was  given 
me  in  double  measure.  Once  in  Boston  I  tried  to 
indicate  to  a  Methodist  pastor  and  some  other 
clerical  friends  who  were  present  with  us  in  his 
study  before  the  morning  service  the  tune  that  I 
wished  to  be  sung  to  the  closing  hymn.  They 
listened  kindly  as  I  tried  to  hum  the  air  that  I 
wanted  to  be  sung:  perhaps  there  was  something 
like  a  subdued  smile  on  their  friendly  faces. 
'*  That  is  a  tune  we  never  heard  before,"  said  one 
of  the  brethren  gravely — and  I  very  well  knew 
what  that  meant.  My  tune  was  only  an  attempt, 
well-meant  but  unsuccessful.  My  heart  was  mak- 
ing melody  unto  the  Lord  that  good  Sunday  morn- 
ing with  the  Boston  Methodists.  The  thought 
overwhelms  me  here  with  a  mighty  joy  that  I  may 
meet  the  fellow-worshipers  to  whom  I  have 
preached  the  glad  gospel  of  Christ  where  I  shall 
be  numbered  truly  and  forever  with  the  Transfig- 
ured Singers.  I  am  unworthy,  but  God's  mercy 
isunbounded.  There  is  music  in  the  words:  The 
grace  that  abides  is  the  grace  that  abounds. 


AN  ABIDING  BENEDICTION. 


AN   ABIDING  BENEDICTION. 

GOD  bless  you,  child  !  "  said  Granny  Snow- 
to  my  mother — "God  bless  you,  and 
your  children,  and  your  children's  chil- 
dren as  long  as  one  of  your  posterity 
lives  on  earth.  God  bless  you  for  your 
kindness  to  me,  kindness  so  thoughtful,  so  patient, 
so  constant." 

Scarcely  any  incident  of  my  early  boyhood  has 
recurred  to  me  oftener  than  this.  I  had  accom- 
panied my  mother  in  her  visit  to  the  bedridden, 
poverty-smitten  old  saint,  who  lay  there  with  her 
wasted  features  framed  in  her  snowy  cap  border. 
It  was  the  face  of  a  saint  who  had  suffered  and 
was  patient.  I  was  four  or  five  years  old,  an  in- 
quisitive, noisy  boy,  pugnacious  with  my  equals  in 
age  and  size,  yet  tender-hearted  at  the  sight  of  any 
sorrow  or  pain.  The  Irish  strain  in  my  blood 
carries  this  mixture  of  a  big  lump  of  combative- 
ness  with  a  pitying  heart.  Both  have  needed 
watching. 

It  has  often  seemed  to  me  that,  all  things  con- 
sidered, this  generation  of  my  fellow-men  has 
made  a  specialty  of  according  kind  treatment  unto 
me.  Agreeable  surprises  on  this  line  have  met  me 
all  along  the  way.  Old  friends  have  proved  truer 
and  nobler  under  unexpected  tests.  Strangers 
have  done  me  kindnesses  with  a  grace  and  glow 
that  have  made  the  beginnings  of  friendships  that 
grow  sweeter  and  stronger  as  the  years  go  by.  At 
such  times  the  vision  of  Granny  Snow's  furrowed 
face  has  appeared  to  my  mind,  and  the  tremulous 
tones  of  her  voice  sounded  in  memory's  ear. 

(269) 


270  Sunset  Views, 

There  must  be  something  in  such  a  benediction. 
Does  not  the  old  Book  say  something  about  chil- 
dren's children  in  connection  with  the  transmission 
of  such  blessings?  Half  a  hundred  years  later,, 
near  this  same  spot  where  Granny  Snow  lived  and 
died,  I  was  reminded  of  the  incident  recited  in  the 
beginning  of  this  chapter.  I  had  come  back  from 
the  Pacific  Coast  an  ordained  minister  of  the  gos- 
pel, and  by  special  arrangement  preached  to  the 
colored  people  on  Sunday  afternoon.  Many  of  the 
associations  of  the  occasion  appealed  powerfully 
to  my  heart.  I  had  "  liberty"  in  my  preaching, 
and  closed  the  discourse  amid  many  expressions 
of  feeling  among  my  dark-complexioned  hearers. 
Among  the  rest,  a  stout-framed,  jet-black  woman 
came  forward  with  the  tears  streaming  from  her 
eyes,  and  grasping  my  hand  said: 

*'  I  is  a  Baptis'  myself,  but  it  appears  to  me  dat 
de  Lord  has  sent  you  to  preach  salvation  to  de 
ends  of  de  earth.  I  know'd  your  mammy,  and 
she  was  good  to  de  black  people" — 

Here  she  broke  down  with  sobs  that  mightily 
shook  her  frame.  It  was  like  touching  a  spark  to 
tinder.  What  a  hand-shaking  I  had,  and  what  a 
flood  of  holy  song  was  poured  forth  from  the 
throats  of  those  hundreds  of  dark-colored  singers  ! 
It  was  evident  to  me  that  I  had  as  many  friends  as 
there  were  worshipers  in  that  assembly,  and  that 
they  all  warmed  to  me  for  my  mother's  sake.  Her 
image  rose  before  my  eyes,  that  were  misty,  and 
the  echo  of  Granny  Snow's  benediction  sounded 
within  my  soul.  Blessed  be  the  memory  of  that 
mother  who  had  her  own  sorrows  and  at  times 
grew  faint  under  the  weight  of  her  burdens,  but 
who  always  had  a  hand  for  help  to  the  lowly  and 
a  word  of  cheer  for  the  downhearted ! 


WILLIAM  McKENDREE. 


WILLIAM  McKENDREE 


HE  was  the  first  native  American  Methodist" 
bishop.  He  was  in  the  true  succession, 
following  Asbury.  His  "call"  was  of 
the  genuine  New  Testament  sort,  a  call 
to  go  and  preach.  He  kept  going  and 
preaching  at  an  astonishing  rate,  crossing  the  Al- 
leghany Mountains  on  horseback  sixty-two  times, 
and  averaging  more  than  one  sermon  every  day 
for  forty-seven  years.  Like  Asbury,  his  prede- 
cessor, he  never  married.  The  explanation  he 
gave  of  this  fact  was  that  he  could  never  find  time 
for  matrimony.  In  this  he  was  unlike  some  of  his 
latter-day  successors.  He  was  a  native  of  Vir- 
ginia, and  came  of  a  family  of  that  solid  class 
which  is  the  backbone  of  both  Church*and  State. 
The  McKendrees  were  Episcopalians  of  the  sort 
that  have  almost  everywhere  taken  to  Methodism 
so  readily.  They  were  an  earnest  people,  those 
McKendrees,  and  Methodism  struck  them  at  a 
time  when  it  was  stirring  to  its  depths  the  heart  of 
a  continent.  * 

McKendree  was  the  spiritual  child  of  John 
Easter,  that  unique  and  picturesque  evangelist, 
who  preached  a  gospel  of  supernatural  claims 
which  was  attested  by  supernatural  results.  John 
Easter  was  truly  a  mighty  man  of  God.  When  he 
stood  before  the  waiting  thousands  at  a  camp  meet- 
ing, he  carried  his  credentials  in  his  face,  and  his 
message  moved  the  hearers  with  overwhelming 
power.  McKendree  was  "  powerfully  converted,'* 
to  use  a  phrase  not  yet  obsolete  in  evangelical  cir- 


274  Sunset  Views. 

cles.  His  sorrow  for  sin  was  profound;  his  sur- 
render to  Christ  was  complete.  A  new  song  was 
put  into  his  mouth  with  the  inflow  of  the  new  hfe 
into  his  soul.  Ever  afterwards  that  new  song  was 
sung  out  by  him  in  notes  that  were  clear  and  sweet. 
The  gospel  of  perhapses,  the  gospel  that  deals  in 
interrogation  points  and  guesswork,  the  gospel, 
so  called,  that  gets  a  glimmer  of  many  things  it 
would  like  to  be  true,  but  no  certainty  with  regard 
to  anything  in  particular — this  was  not  the  gospel 
that  saved  McKendree.  To  him  conversion  meant 
passing  from  death  unto  life,  from  darkness  to 
light,  from  the  power  of  Satan  unto  God — a 
change  of  heart,  a  change  of  Masters,  a  change  of 
life.  What  he  had  seen  and  felt  with  confidence 
he  told — and  his  spiritual  children  were  after  his 
own  likeness.  He  started  with  the  feeling  that 
the  gospel  was  the  power  of  God  unto  salvation; 
that  feeling  he  never  lost.  It  may  seem  a  little 
singular  to  us  now  to  read  what  he  said  of  his  ex- 
perience at  the  New  York  Conference  held  in 
May,  1809 — that  though  he  had  a  comfortable  de- 
gree of  the  Divine  Presence,  ''not  many  were 
converted." 

McKendree's  call  to  preach  came  quickly  aft- 
er his  conversion,  and  had  all  ^he  marks  of  a  call 
from  God.  To  him  it  was  as  distinct  as  was  his 
call  to  discipleship:  so  he  alvvays  felt  and  said. 
The  divine  message  was  as  a  fire  in  his  bones. 
The  Church  took  him  and  held  him  to  her  heart 
as  a  good  mother,  giving  him  full  work  and  full 
pay  as  matters  went  in  those  times:  first  he  got 
fifty  dollars  a  year,  then  eighty  dollars,  and  then 
a  round  hundred  dollars.  Blessed  bachelor  that 
he  was,  he  kept  out  of  debt  and  avoided  all  mat- 
rimonial snares.  In  the  light  of  these  facts  in  his 
financial    experience    he    could   understand   what 


William  McKendree.  275 

Bishop  Asbury  once  said  of  the  preachers  of  the 
Western  Conference:  '*  The  brethren  were  in 
want,  so  I  parted  with  my  watch,  my  coat,  and  my 
shirt."  (The  friendly  reader  will  not  draw  an  in- 
ference too  strong  as  to  the  scantiness  of  the  sober- 
souled  old  bishop's  wardrobe  from  the  fact  that  he 
speaks  of  his  undergarment  as  he  does  of  his 
timekeeper,  in  the  singular  number.) 

McKendree  had  a  period  of  unrest  for  a  season, 
owing  to  the  company  he  was  keeping  at  the  time. 
He  misjudged  Asbur}^,  and  was  led  to  speak  of 
him  disparagingly;  but  when  he  met  him  as  he 
was,  he  changed  his  opinion.  McKendree  was 
one  of  the  men  who  are  quick  to  resist  tyranny  on 
the  one  hand  and  to  assert  and  enforce  rightful 
authority  on  the  other.  Most  of  the  men  who  do 
anything  worth  the  doing  and  attain  unto  wise  and 
beneficent  leadership  in  the  Church  have  their  sea- 
sons of  unrest,  breaking  out  sometimes  in  a  '*  rash  " 
that  is  remedial,  happily  precluding  in  most  in- 
stances all  need  for  "constitutional"  treatment. 
McKendree  had  his  attack  at  an  early  period  in 
his  ministry,  followed  by  rapid  and  complete  re- 
covery, with  no  subsequent  relapse.  In  his  office 
he  was  vigilant  and  firrn  in  the  maintenance  of  the 
authority  of  the  Church  and  in  protecting  it  against 
disturbers  of  its  peace.  When  he  thought  Asbury 
was  in  error,  he  opposed  him  frankly  and  fearless- 
ly; but  he  never  fell  into  the  weakness  exhibited 
by  some  men  who  try  to  be  good,  and  are  partially 
so,  yet  allow  a  difference  in  judgment  to  produce 
alienation  of  friendship.  His  tact  and  good  sense 
may  be  seen  in  the  following  incident  related  by 
an  eye-and-ear  witness:  *' Previous  to  the  first 
delegated  General  Conference,  May,  1812,  Bishop 
McKendree  drew  up  a  *plan  of  business'  to  be 
brought  before  that  body.     His  address  w^as  read 


276  Sunset  Vievjs. 

in  Conference;  but  as  it  was  a  new  thing,  the  aged 
bishop  ( Asbury)  rose  to  his  feet  immediately  after 
the  paper  had  been  read,  and  addressed  the  junior 
bishop  to  the  following  effect:  *I  have  something 
to  say  to  you  before  the  Conference.'  The  junior 
also  rose  to  his  feet,  and  they  stood  face  to  face. 
Bishop  Asbury  went  on  to  say:  *  This  is  a  new 
thing.  I  never  did  business  in  this  way,  and  why 
is  this  new  thing  introduced?  '  The  junior  bishop 
promptly  replied :  '  You  are  our  father,  we  are 
your  sons:  you  have  never  had  need  of  it.  I  am 
only  a  brother,  and  have  need  of  it.'  Bishop  As- 
bury said  no  more,  but  sat  down  with  a  smile  on 
his  face."  The  *' new  thing"  proved  to  be  a 
good  thing. 

In  the  presiding  eldership  McKendree  had  de- 
veloped and  demonstrated  his  executive  ability  and 
his  extraordinary  power  as  a  preacher.  In  a  legit- 
imate sense  of  the  words  it  may  be  said  that  he 
worked  his  way  to  the  bishopric.  It  is  quite  cer- 
tain that  he  never  sought  the  office.  No  surer 
method  could  have  been  used  by  him  to  repel  the 
suffrages  of  his  brethren  than  to  let  it  be  under- 
stood by  them  that  he  was  a  candidate.  He  ac- 
cepted the  office  reluctantly.  We  may  be  sure  that 
his  reluctance  was  genuine:  he  was  a  genuine 
man,  incapable  of  such  a  breach  of  ordination 
vow^s  and  such  an  offense  against  humility  as  would 
be  made  by  seeking  responsibilities  so  heavy  and 
an  honor  so  exalted.  He  preached  at  the  Light 
Street  Church  the  Sunday  before  the  General  Con- 
ference began  its  session  in  Baltimore,  May,  1808 : 
text,  Jeremiah  viii.  21,  22.  He  had  "  full  liberty," 
and  great  was  the  effect  of  the  sermon,  of  which 
Dr.  Bangs  gives  a  graphic  description  in  his  *'  His- 
tory of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church."  *'  The 
congregation,"  he  says,  "  w^as  overwhelmed  with  a 


William  McKendree.  277 

shower  of  divine  grace  from  the  upper  world." 
When  he  descended  from  the  pulpit,  the  brethren 
were  saying  in  their  hearts,  "This  is  the  man 
whom  God  delights  to  honor."  Bishop  Asbury, 
w^ho  was  present,  was  heard  to  say  that  the  ser- 
mon would  make  McKendree  a  bishop,  and  the 
remark  did  not  hinder  the  result  prophesied.  On 
May  12,  the  date  upon  which  the  resolution  to 
elect  one  bishop  was  passed,  he  was  elected  by  the 
largest  majority  that  any  bishop  has  ever  received, 
Asbury  only  excepted.  He  did  not  decline  the 
office  after  his  election:  he  dared  not  do  so.  His 
brethren  had  voted  for  him  on  his  record  as  'a 
preacher,  man  of  affairs,  and  administrator  of 
Church  discipline,  who  had  exhibited  always  the 
self-denial,  the  zeal,  and  the  prudence  of  an 
apostle.  While  claiming  nothing  from  the  Church, 
he  ''belonged"  to  it  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word. 
He  was  in  his  fifty-first  year,  and  in  the  full  ripe- 
ness of  all  his  powers.  His  course  was  a  trail  of 
light  through  all  the  twenty-seven  years  that  fol- 
lowed, until  his  death,  in  Sumner  Count}^  Tenn., 
March  5,  1835. 

To  William  McKendree  more  than  to  any  other 
man  is  Episcopal  Methodism  indebted  for  the  wis- 
dom of  its  polity  and  the  excellence  of  its  parlia- 
mentary  methods.  While  not  insisting  upon  any 
closeness  of  analogies,  somehow  it  seems  to  me 
that  what  Washington  was  to  the  State  McKen- 
dree was  to  the  Church  in  America. 


MCTYEIRE  AS  AN  EDITOR. 


McTYElRE  AS  AN  EDITOR. 


GREAT  orators  are  more  numerous  than 
great  editors.  A  hundred  men  are  elo- 
quent where  one  is  found  to  possess  the 
indefinable  touch  that  stamps  him  as  a 
born  editor.  Indefinable  it  is,  just  as 
the  touch  of  a  musical  genius,  as  contradistin- 
guished from  musical  talent,  is  indefinable.  A 
glance  at  a  newspaper  in  the  one  case,  and  the  hear- 
ing of  a  single  bar  of  a  musical  composition  in  the 
other,  reveals  the  precious  gift. 

*'The  young  man  has  a  gift,"  said  Dr.  Leroy 
M.  Lee,  editor  of  the  Richmond  Christian  Advo- 
cate^ after  reading  some  of  McTyeire's  first  essays 
in  newspaper  letter-writing.  The  older  editor 
spoke  truly:  the  young  man  had  a  gift.  People 
began  to  ask:  '*  Who  is  this  new  writer  who  signs 
himself  H.  N.  McTyeire?"  There  was  in  what 
he  wrote  an  incisiveness  and  an  epigrammatic 
sparkle  that  betokened  the  advent  of  a  man  of  gen- 
ius. It  is  a  gracious  law  of  God  that  men  love  to  do 
that  which  they  can  do  well .  Native  bent  and  prov- 
idential leading  take  them  in  the  same  direction. 
McTyeire  excelled  in  so  many  things  that  the  ap- 
plication of  this  aphorism  to  him  seems  to  be  at- 
tended with  difficulty.  He  was  many-sided.  As 
a  merchant,  planter,  or  stock  breeder,  he, would 
have  risen  to  the  top.  Whatever  he  did  for  the 
time  being  seemed  to  be  his  forte. 

The  Church  soon  discerned  that  the  new  editor 
in  New  Orleans  was  a  man  of  mark.  His  lead- 
ing editorials  were  on  live  topics.     The  headings 

(281) 


282  Sunset  Views, 

of  them  were  usually  striking  and  suggestive.  He 
had  the  sense  of  proportion  lacked  by  so  many 
gifted  men:  he  did  not  waste  his  strength  or  space 
on  trifles.  He  knew  how  to  winnow  the  chaff 
from  the  wheat.  By  sheer  ability  his  paper  soon 
became  an  influential  organ  of  public  opinion 
within  the  bounds  of  the  patronizing  Conferences 
and  beyond.  He  was  not  disinclined  to  contro- 
versy when  occasion  required.  The  retort  he 
gave  to  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Bishop  Green,  of 
Mississippi,  must  have  elicited  a  smile  from  that 
amiable  high-churchman  himself.  The  Bishop 
wrote  and  published  a  series  of  letters  on  the 
unity  of  the  Church  of  Christ,  in  which  he  gave 
special  consideration  to  the  relations  of  the  Epis- 
copalians and  the  Methodists,  concluding,  after 
the  manner  of  his  school,  with  an  invitation  to  the 
Methodists  to  *'  come  back  into  the  Episcopal 
Church."  *'That  is  cool!"  said  McTyeire, 
*'  that  is  cool !  The  next  proposition,  we  presume, 
will  be  to  turn  the  Mississippi  River  into  Buffalo 
Bayou."  That  was  enough:  the  fallacious  plea 
for  unity  that  was  not  unity  was  fitly  answered. 
In  a  good-natured  way  he  gave  the  Pacific  Con- 
ference of  his  own  denomination  a  touch  of  caustic. 
The  well-known  Presbyterian  preacher,  Dr.  Wil- 
liam A.  Scott,  once  of  New  Orleans  and  after- 
wards of  San  Francisco,  in  one  of  his  books  had 
repeated  the  statement  that  John  Wesley  once 
tossed  up  a  shilling  to  decide  whether  he  would  be 
an  Arminian  or  a  Calvinist.  This  provoked  Mc- 
Tyeire's  resentment  and  elicited  from  him  a  sharp 
rebuke  in  a  newspaper  article.  Not  long  afterwards, 
during  a  session  of  the  Pacific  Annual  Conference, 
held  in  San  Francisco,  Dr.  Scott  presented  each 
member  of  the  body  with  a  copy  of  several  of  his 
works,  among  them  the  one  containing  the  charge 


McTyeire  as  an  Editor,  283 

against  Mr.  Wesley.  The  Conference,  by  resolu- 
tion, thanked  Dr.  Scott  for  the  books  thus  pre- 
sented by  him.  When  this  action  of  the  Confer- 
ence reached  McTyeire,  he  dryly  suggested  that 
somebody  present  the  Conference  with  the  shilling 
used  by  Mr.  Wesley  on  the  occasion  referred  to, 
*'in  order  that  its  members  might  use  it  in  cut- 
ting their  wisdom  teeth."  Though  a  small  matter, 
it  is  but  just  to  Dr.  Scott  to  say  that  the  relation  of 
this  story  concerning  Mr.  Wesley  was  made 
in  no  invidious  spirit.  Dr.  Scott  was  a  big- 
brained,  large-hearted  Christian  man  who 
loved  Methodists  and  was  esteemed  by  them  as 
an  able  and  faithful  minister  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  A  joust  between  McTyeire  and  his  brother 
editor,  Dr.  Wightman,  of  the  Southern  Christian 
Advocate^  attracted  the  attention  of  the  entire 
Church.  They  were  pretty  well  matched — the 
brainy  and  cultured  Wightman,  then  in  the  full- 
ness of  his  powers  and  rapidly  rising  to  a  foremost 
place  among  his  brethren;  and  McTyeire,  bright 
and  keen  and  aggressive,  who  was  winning  his 
spurs  in  the  arena  of  intellectual  combat. 

McTyeire  went  loaded — pardon  the  expression — 
for  bigotry  and  arrogance.  His  satire  was  at  times 
blistering.  Yet  he  was  truly  irenic — irenic  in  this 
sense:  that  he  recognized  the  essential  unity  of  all 
true  followers  of  Christ,  and  was  always  ready  to 
extend  the  right  hand  of  Christian  fellowship  to  all 
who  reciprocated  fraternal  courtesies  without  set- 
ting up  exclusive  claims  or  putting  on  foolish  airs. 
He  was  irenic  on  this  proper  basis,  and  in  his  in- 
tercourse with  his  brethren  of  other  denominations 
he  exhibited  a  refined  courteousness  and  an  eleva- 
tion of  spirit  that  won  their  admiration  and  good 
will  in  no  small  degree. 

As  an  editor  McTyeire  was  broad  as  well  as  in- 


284  Sunset  Views, 

cisive.  His  discussions  of  current  questions  and 
comments  on  passing  events  exhibited  rare  keen- 
ness of  observation  and  a  mind  richly  furnished 
by  wide  and  varied  reading.  He  was  a  close 
reader  of  the  periodical  literature  of  the  day,  and 
his  eye  ran  over  the  columns  of  the  newspaper 
press  with  the  rapidity  of  an  expert  and  with  the 
instinct  that  hit  at  once  upon  what  he  wanted.  He 
had  what  might  be  called  a  genius  for  quotation :  he 
could  take  an  extract  and  give  it  an  editorial  setting 
so  striking  that  the  very  author  of  the  piece  quoted 
would  be  agreeably  surprised  to  see  how  good  a 
thing  he  had  said.  The  readers  of  his  paper 
learned  to  look  for  something  on  the  editorial  page 
every  week  that  would  put  them  to  thinking. 
About  once  a  month  he  wrote  a  leading  editorial 
into  which  he  threw  his  whole  strength. 

McTyeire  was  so  prominent  and  influential  dur- 
ing the  stormy  transitional  period  in  which  he  lived 
that  he  did  not  lack  occasion  for  the  exercise  of 
his  special  controversial  gift.  In  one  way  or  an- 
other he  took  part  in  all  that  was  going  forward  in 
the  Church.  It  was  his  disposition  to  take  sides 
on  every  question.  Not  seldom  did  it  devolve  on 
him  to  be  the  special  champion  of  views  or  meas- 
ures that  were  hotly  contested.  Duty  called  him 
into  the  lists,  and  he  responded  to  the  call.  To- 
gether with  a  natural  relish  for  intellectual  combat, 
he  had  driving  power  enough  to  have  made  him  a 
revolutionary  leader  had  not  grace  made  him  con- 
servative. He  was  half  Irish,  and  that  half  at 
times  seemed  to  be  the  whole  man.  Whenever 
there  shall  be  in  Christendom  a  fight,  whether  with 
spiritual  or  carnal  weapons,  in  which  no  Irishman 
takes  part,  it  will  be  when  there  are  no  Irishmen 
left.  The  Scotch  half  of  McTyeire  was  not  a  non- 
combative  element  in  his  constitution. 


Mc  Tyeire  as  an  Editor,  285 

Barred  subsequently  by  considerations  growing 
out  of  his  official  position  from  entering  the  arena 
of  newspaper  controversy,    McTyeire   sometimes 
relieved  his  mental  tension  and  acquitted  his  con- 
science by  inditing  articles   that  were  published 
anonymously   in     the    newspaper    press    of     the 
Church.     These  articles  were  signed  *'  Old  Meth- 
odist,"   **An  Elder,"    *' Onesiphorus,"   or  some- 
thing of  the  sort.     But  it  was  not  easy  for  such  a 
writer  as  he  to  preserve  his  incognito.     Not  a  few 
discerning  readers  suspected  that  behind  these  fa- 
miliar 7ioms  de  ■plume  was  the  puissant  President  of 
the    Board   of    Trust    of    Vanderbilt    University. 
Now  and  then  an  aggrieved  disputant  complained 
that  he  had  been  anonymously  attacked,  and  in- 
timated that  he   suspected  the  true  authorship — 
**  flushing  big  game,"  said  an  editor  who  had  a 
graphic  way  of  putting  things.     Pending  the  meet- 
ing of  the  General  Conference  of  1882,  there  was 
a  slight  agitation  in  the  Church  on  the  subject  of 
organic  union  with  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church 
(North).     It  was  a  slight  agitation  indeed,  scarce- 
ly touching   the   great   body  of  the   ministry  and 
membership  of  our  Church;   but  there  seemed  to 
be  some  danger  that  it    might   reach  proportions 
or  assume  a  phase   that   would   imperil  the   har- 
mony of   the   General    Conference    session,    and 
possibly    cause    other    troubles.     Two    or    three 
sprightly  writers  had  found  access  to  the  columns 
of  the  Church  press  with  articles  advocating  or- 
ganic union,  and  a  worthy  and  well-meaning  broth- 
er had    even    published    a   book    advocating  that 
measure.     Ever  watchful  of  his  Church's  interest 
and  of  the  signs  of  the  times.  Bishop   McTyeire 
wrote  an  elaborate  paper  in  which  he  recited  the 
history  of  the  separation  of  Episcopal  Methodism 
in  America  into  two  coequal  parts  and  the  subse- 


286  Sunset  Views. 

quent  history  of  each  as  it  bore  upon  the  ques- 
tion at  issue;  then  he  drew  a  picture  of  Southern 
Methodism  peaceful,  prosperous,  and  rapidly  grow- 
ing; and  finally  showed  the  confusion,  discord, 
and  disaster  that  would  result  from  the  introduc- 
tion of  a  proposition  for  organic  union  into  the 
General  Conference.  **  It  will  be  a  bold  hand  that 
will  throw  this  apple  of  discord  into  the  body,"  he 
said  in  conclusion.  There  was  no  hand  bold 
enough  to  make  that  cast  after  the  appearance  of 
that  masterly  paper  in  the  Nashville  Christian  Ad- 
vocate, It  was  printed  as  an  editorial,  the  editor 
of  the  connectional  organ  being  glad  thus  to  util- 
ize so  conclusive  an  argument  sustaining  his  own 
view  of  the  question.  The  article  was  not  an- 
swered: it  was  unanswerable.  It  demonstrated 
the  unwisdom  of  the  proposed  measure  and  punc- 
tured the  fallacies  of  its  advocates  in  such  a  way 
that  the  Church  has  ever  since  had  rest  on  that 
line.  It  did  more:  it  conserved  the  fraternal  re- 
lations happily  existing  with  the  sister  Methodism 
which  would  have  been  imperiled  by  an  abortive 
attempt  to  force  a  measure  which  was  then  contra- 
indicated  by  all  the  facts  of  the  situation  and  could 
be  productive  only  of  harm  to  all  the  precious  in- 
terests involved.  The  writer  of  this  paper  was  the 
editor  of  the  connectional  organ  of  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church,  South,  at  the  time  here  spoken 
of,  and  in  stating  these  facts  feels  that  he  is  only 
discharging  a  brotherly  obligation  and  giving  honor 
where  honor  is  due. 

American  Methodism  has  had  no  abler  editor 
than  McTyeire.  In  going  over  the  files  of  the  pa- 
pers edited  by  him,  the  appreciative  reader  sees 
everywhere  the  work  of  a  mind  of  extraordinary 
power,  and  is  charmed  by  a  style  scarcely  equaled 
for  its  simplicity  and   force — the  force   of  Saxon 


McTyeire  as  an  Editor.  287 

monosyllables  shot  straight  at  their  object,  rarely 
missing  and  sure  when  they  did  strike  to  bring 
down  the  game.  While  he  was  notably  militant 
and  aggressive,  his  columns  were  illuminated  with 
flashes  of  the  most  genial  humor,  and  his  simple 
pathos  was  inimitable  and  irresistible.  He  had  the 
insight  and  genuine  sympathy  that  made  another's 
sorrow  his  own.  He  wrote  many  memoirs  of  the 
sainted  dead  at  the  request  of  the  bereaved,  and  in 
these  sacred  tributes  thoughtfulness  and  depth  of 
feeling  were  so  blended  that  they  were  models  of 
their  kind.  In  the  families  in  which  he  had  min- 
istered to  the  sick  and  whose  dead  he  had  buried 
he  was  never  forgotten. 

Wherever  McTyeire's  voice  was  heard,  it  rose 
clear  and  strong  above  all  the  din  and  confusion 
of  his  time,  and  it  was  recognized  by  all  as  the 
voice  of  a  leader.  Had  he  remained  on  the  tripod, 
we  cannot  say  whether  his  place  in  Methodist  his- 
tory would  have  been  larger  or  smaller.  He  would 
have  done  a  different  work,  but  it  might  have  been 
as  great.  Religious  literature  might  have  gained 
what  would  have  been  lost  elsewhere. 


THE  QUESTION   WE  ARE  ALL  ASKING 
WHY  DO  THEY  NOT  COME  BACK  ? 


19 


THE  QUESTION  WE  ARE  ALL  ASKING:  WHY  DO 
THEY  NOT  COME  BACK? 


OF  the  millions  who  love  us  while  they  are 
with  us,  and  who  die  and  leave  us  every 
year,  why  does  not  one  of  them  all  come 
back  and  tell  us  something  of  that  other 
life  to  which  they  have  gone  ?  Why  not, 
why  not?  these  human  hearts  have  been  asking 
through  all  the  long  ages  of  the  past,  and  they  are 
still  asking  the  unanswered  question  wherever  there 
are  living  hearts  that  love,  and  vacant  seats  in 
homes  bereft,  and  empty  cradles  where  sad-faced 
mothers  weep.  Some  whose  great,  true  hearts  we 
knew  promised  when  they  left  us  to  come  back  to 
us  with  a  message  from  the  other  side  if  they  could 
and  if  it  were  right  for  them  so  to  do.  But  they 
have  not  come  back  to  us,  though  long  years  have 
passed.  The  faces  we  loved  to  look  upon  are  veiled ; 
in  the  silence  that  is  unbroken  the  voices  we  loved 
to  hear  are  hushed.  Their  images  are  still  held  in 
our  hearts,  that  could  not  forget  if  they  would  and 
would  not  forget  if  they  could.  Embracing  them 
in  our  dreams,  we  awake  clasping  only  the  empty 
air..  Thrilling  with  the  tones  that  were  sweet  to 
our  ears  before  their  lips  were  closed  and  cold,  we 
awake  in  the  silence,  and  find  no  voice  to  answer 
the  question  that  our  hearts  are  still  asking:  Why 
do  they  not  come  back  to  tell  us  where  they  are, 
and  what  they  have  seen  since  they  went  away? 

That  is  a  sad  note  wrung  from  the  heart  of 
Israel's  king,  that  grand,  faulty  man  who  had  in 
his  soul  passion  enough  to  make  a  thousand  trag- 

(291) 


292  Sunset  Views. 

edies,  and  nobility  enough  to  make  a  whole  army 
of  heroes,  a  man  so  good  at  his  best,  so  bad  at 
his  worst.  Of  his  dead  child  he  said:  *'I  shall 
go  to  him,  but  he  shall  not  return  to  me."  He 
shall  not  return:  that  was  certain.  There  is  no 
sign  of  doubt  here.  He  accepted  a  fact  that  can- 
not be  denied:  the  dead  do  not  return.  That  is 
the  rule.  The  exceptions  are  nothing  but  excep- 
tions. Now  and  then,  when  God  in  his  own  wisest 
way  causes  the  line  of  separation  to  be  crossed,  it 
is  for  a  gracious  purpose  and  with  sacred  safe- 
guards. When  man  seeks  to  cross  this  line  on 
his  own  volition,  his  curiosity  is  baffled,  his  temer- 
ity is  rebuked,  his  diabolism  unmasked.  Where 
the  love  of  money  is  the  root  of  this  evil,  the 
conscious  motive  of  a  pretense  of  bridging  the 
chasm  between  the  two  worlds,  it  is  hard  to  deal 
with  it  in  the  exercise  of  our  poor  human  wisdom. 
Some  of  these  pretenders,  like  Simon  Magus,  re- 
pent and  amend  their  lives;  others,  like  the  Witch 
of  Endor,  bewitch  souls  that  are  weak  or  unset- 
tled, souls  that  are  unlawfully  impatient.  In  the 
Old  Testament  record  these  "witches"  flit  before 
our  vision  enwrapped  in  lurid  light,  speaking 
strange  words  and  doing  strange  things.  I  have 
no  word  of  censure  or  scorn  for  the  men  and 
women  whose  yearning  hearts  prompt  them  to  in- 
quire of  these  who  say  they  can  give  an  answer 
to  the  question  that  all  of  us  are  asking.  But  if 
any  good  has  ever  come  from  this  sort  of  thing, 
it  has  never  come  to  my  knowledge.  My  heart 
invokes  the  pity  of  the  good  God  for  the  breaking 
heart  that  is  hungering  for  the  message  that  does  not 
come,  the  eager  soul  that  chafes  at  the  long,  long 
delay- 

One  world  at  a  time,  is  the  rule.     If  we  try  to 
break  over  this  rule,    it  is   at   our  peril.     But  our 


The  Question  We  Are  All  Asking.         293 

Heavenly  Father  will  not  leave  us  in  doubt  as  to 
the  main  thing — namely,  that  there  is  a  life  to  come. 
We  may  hopefully  and  patiently  wait  to  hear  his 
voice  speak  as  never  man  spake.  The  attitude 
of  the  soul  toward  this  highest  truth  measures  its 
receptivity  in  a  sense  that  conveys  a  warning  as 
solemn  as  the  judgment  and  suggests  a  blessedness 
beyond  estimation.  It  is  the  old  law  in  practical 
operation:  to  him  that  hath  shall  be  given.  To 
him  who  is  a  sincere  lover  of  truth,  more  and  more 
truth  will  be  revealed.  The  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus, 
who  is  the  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life,  will  re- 
ward the  search  of  him  whose  desires  invite  its  com- 
ing and  whose  spiritual  habitudes  insure  its  assim- 
ilation. A  young  Japanese  student  who  had  em- 
braced Christianity  at  Vanderbilt  University  said 
to  me  with  a  beaming  face:  *'  The  personality  of 
Jesus  Christ  mastered  me."  Bless  his  brave,  man- 
ly soul !  He  loved  the  truth,  and  was  eager  in  his 
search  for  it;  and  when  he  received  the  Master's 
touch,  he  was  ready  for  it.  The  good  seed  in  this 
case  fell  upon  good  ground.  The  Japanese  nation, 
whose  soldiers  are  not  afraid  to  die  and  are  faith- 
ful unto  death,  it  seems  to  me,  is  good  soil  in  which 
to  sow  the  good  seed  of  the  kingdom  of  God. 
Whatever  of  literalness  there  is  in  the  prediction 
that  *'  a  nation  shall  be  born  in  a  day,"  we  might 
hope  to  see  shown  by  that  people  whose  fight 
with  the  Russians  in  Manchuria  is  exciting  the 
wonder  of  the  world  at  this  hour. 

One  world  at  a  time  may  be  necessitated  by  the 
limitations  of  this  short  human  life  on  earth.  We 
are  planted  in  the  soil  of  earth,  and  there  we  must 
grow.  The  conditions  that  belong  to  the  life  to 
come  would  probably  fit  us  no  more  than  would 
the  life  of  a  bird  of  the  air  suit  a  fish  of  the  sea. 
*'  It  doth  not  yet  appear  what  we  shall  be,"  says 


294  Sunset  Views. 

the  apostle  John,  who  had  seen  as  much  of  these 
things  as  any  one  else  has  ever  done.  The  all-sat- 
isfying truth  is  revealed  that  in  that  life  to  come 
the  disciples  who  truly  love  their  Lord  shall  be  like 
him,  because  *'  they  shall  see  him  as  he  is."  The 
modes  of  that  life,  and  the  fullness  of  it,  and  the 
glory  of  it,  could  no^be  disclosed  clearly  or 
profitably  to  those  who  are  still  in  the  body.  The 
glimpse  that  the  apostle  Paul  had  of  the  things 
"up  there  "  he  was  forbidden  to  reveal — perhaps 
for  this  very  reason  the  attempt  to  utter  what  he 
saw  in  the  language  of  earth  would  fail,  and  serve 
only  to  bewilder  and  dishearten  where  he  would 
be  glad  to  convey  light  and  strength.  The  lan- 
guage of  earth  is  inadequate  to  describe  the  glories 
of  the  heavenly  life.  The  blundering  and  frag- 
mentary discussion  of  this  theme  would  divert  into 
unprofitable  channels  the  activities  demanded  by  a 
probationary  life  that  is  very  brief  and  whose 
course  is  necessarily  one  of  practical  activities. 
This  probationary  life  means  the  *' working  out 
our  salvation,"  with  no  time  to  lose  and  no 
strength  to  fritter  away  in  jabbering  and  wonder- 
ing over  matters  that  belong  to  another  stage  of 
existence.  Lazarus  was  three  days  and  nights 
somewhere  in  the  world  of  spirits,  but  he  brought 
back  no  message  for  us.  Moses,  when  he  met  the 
Divine  Presence  on  the  mount,  came  back  with  a 
shining  face,  but  with  no  revelation  beside  the  spe- 
cific message  with  which  he  was  charged — a  mes- 
sage that  related  not  to  the  glories  of  heaven  but 
to  the  duties  of  earth.  The  meaning  of  all  this  is, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  one  world  at  a  time.  The 
teachings  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  to  his  disciples 
had  to  be  graduated  as  they  were  able  to  bear 
them.  More  is  coming,  and  better.  This  we  are 
told,  and  proofs   are  plentiful  that  He  that  bath 


The  Question  We  Are  All  Asking,        295 

promised  is  faithful  and  able  to  bring  it  all  to  pass. 
So  we  will  watch  and  wait  and  work  while  it  is 
called  to-day.  Yes,  we  will  wait  until  our  change 
comes — which  change  the  apostle  tells  us  (2  Cor. 
iii.  18)  will  be  a  '*changefrom  glory  to  glory, "good, 
better,  best.  So  we  will  take  things  as  they  come 
here  on  earth.  We  may  ** groan,"  being  bur- 
dened, and  we  are  only  human;  but  we  will  not 
whine,  we  will  not  doubt,  we  will  not  complain 
because  we  are  called  to  follow  the  path  our  Mas- 
ter trod.  And  we  will  sing  out  our  song  of  joy 
because,  as  Bunyan's  pilgrim  puts  it,  *'  the  thoughts 
of  what  we  are  going  to  lie  like  live  coals  at  our. 
hearts."  With  the  apostle  Paul  (Rom.  v.  3-5) 
say :  *'  We  glory  in  tribulations  also :  knowing  that 
tribulation  worketh  patience;  and  patience,  expe- 
rience; and  experience,  hope:  and  hope  maketh 
not  ashamed ;  because  the  love  of  God  is  shed 
abroad  in  our  hearts  by  the  Holy  Ghost  which  is 
given  unto  us."  Read  these  words,  so  rich  in 
their  meaning,  so  sweet  to  the  taste,  and  do  not  be 
afraid  to  rejoice  in  the  consciousness  that  you 
possess  the  best  things  here  and  that  you  are  on 
your  way  to  the  best  things  there — from  grace  to 
glory,  and  from  glory  to  glory.  That  word  *'  trib- 
ulation "  means  ''thrashing,"  so  the  scholars  tell 
us.  Studying  these  definitions  in  the  school  of  ex- 
perience, the  deeper  I  go  into  their  meanings  the 
more  I  am  constrained  to  praise  the  Lord,  and  it 
would  be  no  perfunctory  utterance  for  me  to  say 
just  here:  Glory  be  to  Him  to  whom  belongs  now 
and  forever  the  kingdom  and  the  power  and  the 
glory ! 

With  reverent  souls  let  us  revert  to  the  other 
clause  of  the  Old  Testament  text  with  which  we 
began.  The  smitten  king,  getting  ready  to  bury 
out  of  his  sight  his  dead  child,  and  realizing  that 


296  Sunset  Views, 

in  the  relation  of  father  and  child  it  was  the  last 
of  earth,  said:  *' I  shall  go  to  him."  I  shall  go  to 
my  child  in  my  own  identity,  and  meet  the  child 
in  its  own  identity.  If  his  words  do  not  have  this 
meaning,  they  mean  nothing  worth  recording  or 
repeating.  Human  love  is  a  mockery  if  it  is  to  be 
buried  forever  in  the  grave.  When  the  apostle 
Paul  assures  his  sorrowing  fellow-believers  at 
Thessalonica,  who  were  mourning  for  their  dead, 
that  "  them  that  sleep  in  Jesus  will  God  bring  with 
him"  at  the  resurrection,  can  he  mean  less  than 
that  they  will  be  recognized  when  they  meet?  If 
not,  it  was  but  a  poor  attempt  to  console  their  bro- 
ken hearts.  Elsewhere  in  the  New  Testament 
(Luke  xvi.  9)  believers  are  exhorted  to  '*make  to 
themselves  friends  of  the  mammon  of  unrighteous- 
ness," that  the  beneficiaries  of  their  bounty  might 
welcome  them  *' into  everlasting  habitations."  It 
surely  signifies  that  the  earthly  relation  of  giver  and 
receiver  of  kindness  will  form  the  basis  of  a  rec- 
ognition and  fellowship  that  will  gladden  their  ar- 
rival and  enhance  their  felicity  in  the  City  of  God 
forever.  Christian  culture  intensifies  and  exalts 
human  affection  and  Christian  friendship,  and 
gives  to  these  relationships  something  of  the  sa- 
credness  and  imperishability  of  every  sweet  and 
holy  thing  that  has  been  hallowed  by  the  blessing 
of  the  Lord.  I  know  there  are  questions  that  will 
arise  that  are  hard  to  answer  with  regard  to  these 
relationships  here  and  there,  and  I  have  no  de- 
sire to  appear  to  be  wase  above  what  is  written ; 
but  I  wish  here  and  now  solemnly  yet  joyfully  to 
record  my  belief  that  all  the  holy  affections  belong- 
ing to  the  relationships  ordained  of  God  in  this 
earthly  life  will,  in  the  essential  elements  that  give 
them  their  beauty  and  their  blessedness,  live  as 
long  as  God  himself  shall  live.     Thus  believing. 


The  c^uestion  We  Are  All  Asking,      297 

my  Christian  friendships  become  more  and  more 
precious ;  and  my  daily  prayer  is,  that  my  affection 
which  touches  those  in  the  inner  circle  of  home 
and  kindred  may  be  purer  and  wiser  with  the  wis- 
dom which  is  love,  the  love  which  will  be  carried 
with  us  into  the  heaven  where  we  shall  see  face 
to  face  and  know  even  as  we  are  known,  and 
where  awaits  us,  according  to  the  promise  of  God, 
knowledge  without  ignorance,  power  without  weak- 
ness, and  love  without  alloy.  All  this  I  know  goes 
beyond  any  possible  deservings  of  mine,  but  my 
hopes  are  measured  by  the  promise  of  the  Lord. 

These  sunset  views  at  Seabreeze  may  seem  to  go 
far,  but  God's  promise  goes  farther.  The  apostle's 
doxology  that  closes  the  third  chapter  of  his  Epistle 
to  the  Ephesians  sings  itself  in  my  soul  as  I  close 
this  chapter:  **Now  unto  him  that  is  able  to  do 
exceeding  abundantly  above  all  that  we  ask  or 
think,  according  to  the  power  that  worketh  in  us, 
unto  him  be  glory  in  the  Church  by  Christ  Jesus 
throughout  all  ages,  world  without  end.     Amen." 


THE  SON  OF  MAN. 


THE  SON  OF  MAN. 

THE  motto  for  the  morning  prayer  that  sun- 
ny Sabbath  morning  at  Seabreeze  was 
Luke  vi.  5:  **And  he  said  unto  them, 
That  the  Son  of  man  is  Lord  also  of  the 
Sabbath. "  The  prayer  was  something  like 
this:  **  With  adoration  and  praise  we  come  before 
thy  presence,  O  Lord,  as  the  Son  of  God,  our  di- 
vine Redeemer.  With  sacred  joy  we  draw  nigh 
unto  thee,  O  Lord,  as  the  Son  of  Man.  Thou  art 
our  blessed  Immanuel,  God  with  us  in  our  hearts 
and  in  our  homes.  Thou  didst  take  upon  thyself 
our  human  nature,  hungering  and  thirsting,  toiling, 
sorrowing,  dying.  Thou  knowest  our  frames,  and 
rememberest  that  we  are  dust.  Thou  art  the 
Lord  also  of  the  Sabbath.  The  Sabbath  is  suited 
in  its  design  and  influence  to  our  human  needs  and 
capacities.  It  is  the  Sabbath,  not  merely  of  forms, 
but  of  service  and  help,  of  mercy.  It  is  a  Sab- 
bath of  light  and  love  from  the  Son  of  Man  to  all 
the  children  of  men  in  all  lands  and  throughout  all 
ages.  Make  it  such  a  Sabbath  to  us,  blessed  Lord. 
Be  with  us  where  we  are ;  hallow  all  our  employ- 
ments and  devotions  by  thy  blessing;  give  us, 
above  all,  that  which  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law,  and 
be  thou  to  us  the  end  of  the  law  for  righteousness 
as  true  believers.  Son  of  Man,  let  us  feel  the  clasp 
of  thine  arms  and  be  filled  with  the  joy  of  thy 
great  salvation  in  this  home  and  in  all  our  hearts. 
Amen." 

The  faces  of   the  little  company  spoke  the  an- 
swer that  was  given  to  the  prayer.    The  venerable 

(30O 


302  Sunset  Views. 

lady  with  white  hair  and  wasted  form,  who  had 
been  for  many  days  a  prisoner  in  the  home,  a  help- 
less cripple,  had  on  her  face  the  light  reflected 
from  the  countenance  of  her  Lord.  The  toil- 
worn,  sorrow-smitten  features  of  the  little  woman 
in  black  at  the  head  of  the  table  were  wet  with 
tears  that  spoke  of  tenderness  and  trust  in  the  com- 
panionship of  the  Son  of  Man,  who  was  the  man  of 
sorrows.  The  sister  who  sat  near,  also  wearing 
the  sable  color  of  grief,  had  a  shining  face  and 
a  new  light  in  her  eye.  The  two  visitors  to  Sea- 
breeze felt,  not  for  the  first  time  but  most  sweetly, 
that  the  Son  of  Man  in  the  fullest,  loftiest,  sweet- 
est sense  of  the  expression  was  Lord  also  of  the 
Sabbath. 

The  other  sister,  youngest  of  the  three,  the  af- 
flicted child  of  the  family,  who  was  to  be  always  a 
child  until  her  childhood  was  merged  in  the  life  to 
come,  had  the  look,  at  once  pathetic  in  its  weak- 
ness and  restful  in  its  trust,  which  we  may  think 
of  as  that  which  was  on  the  faces  of  the  little  chil- 
dren that  Jesus  took  up  in  his  arms  and  blessed 
when  he  was  with  us  in  the  actual  bodily 
presence.  The  black  boy,  the  colored  lad  who 
whistled  and  sang  all  day  at  his  work  in  and 
around  the  house,  who  always  came  in  to  the  little 
prayer  service  in  the  morning,  was  a  little  sobered 
with  that  serene  soberness  of  look  that  speaks  of  a 
soul  that  gets  a  glimpse  of  the  Mighty  One  Lord 
who  rules  in  righteousness,  and  is  the  Friend  of 
sinners  and  the  Comforter  who  abides  with  his 
people  forever. 


OUR  THREE  PILLOWS. 


OUR  THREE  PILLOWS. 

I  HAD  just  received  a  letter  from  a  friend  who 
is  a  chronic  invalid,  so  utterly  disabled  by 
sickness  that  he  has  not  left  his  bed  for  many 
months.  My  morning  Scripture  lesson  was 
the  forty-first  Psalm.  The  third  verse  struck 
me  with  special  force.  The  promise  to  a  good 
man  that  the  Lord  ''  will  make  all  his  bed  in  sick- 
ness" touched  tenderly  the  heart  of  the  writer, 
who  is  acquiring  an  intelligent  sympathy  with  the 
sick  in  the  only  way  by  which  it  can  come  to  us — 
that  is,  by  personal  experience  of  the  same  sort.  I 
recall  the  remark  of  a  dying  believer  many  years 
ago,  who,  when  asked  by  his  pastor,  '*  How  are 
you,  sir?"  said,  *'My  head  is  resting  very  sweet- 
ly on  three  pillows — infinite  love,  infinite  wisdom, 
and  infinite  power."  The  thought  came  to  me 
that  it  is  the  same  hand  that  makes  the  believer's 
bed  now,  and  upon  the  same  pillows  may  rest  the 
weary  head  now  as  when  the  man  of  God  wrote 
this  text. 

Infinite  love  will  withhold  no  good  thing  from 
the  trusting  soul.  It  would  bestow  more  than  we 
can  ask  or  think.  There  may  be  vagueness  in  our 
minds  in  the  expression  **  infinite  love,"  but  we 
can  look  for  nothing  less,  we  can  employ  no  nar- 
rower terms  in  dealing  with  God. 

In  the  next  place,  we  are  to  remind  ourselves 
that  infinite  wisdom  plans  for  all  that  infinite  love 
desires  in  our  behalf.  The  wisdom  of  God — the 
words  suggest  a  breadth  of  meaning  beyond  de- 
scription in  human  speech. 

20  (305) 


3o6  Sunset  Views. 

In  the  third  place,  we  may  call  to  mind  the  fact 
that  infinite  power  can  bring  to  pass  all  that  infinite 
love  desires  and  all  that  infinite  wisdom  plans  in 
behalf  of  a  trusting  soul. 

These  are  the  three  pillows:  The  love  that 
abides  and  abounds,  the  wisdom  that  never  fails, 
the  power  that  saves  to  the  uttermost.  On  these 
three  pillows  ye  may  rest  your  heads,  all  ye  that 
suffer.  Your  needs  may  be  great,  but  the  re- 
sources of  your  Comforter  are  sufficient,  being  in- 
finite in  their  extent  and  eternal  in  their  duration. 


BIG  AB:  A  TYPICAL  OLD-TIME  NEGRO. 


BIG  AB  :  A  TYPICAL  OLD-TIME  NEGRO. 


BIG  AB  was  a  typical  negro  of  the  old  dis- 
pensation. He  had  the  size  and  strength 
of  a  giant.  He  was  good-natured  and  re- 
ligious after  a  most  cheerful  sort.  He  af- 
fected big  words.  In  polemics  he  was 
especially  strong.  He  quoted  Scripture  abundant- 
ly, though  some  of  his  texts  would  scarcely  recog- 
nize themselves  as  presented  by  him.  He  stood 
high  in  the  esteem  of  his  own  people,  who  admired 
him  for  his  physical  prowess  and  for  his  stilted  vo- 
cabulary. He  was  honest  through  and  through 
and  truthful  to  the  core,  albeit  he  was  overfond 
of  superlatives.  He  had  an  ax  for  his  own  par- 
ticular use  that  was  larger  than  any  wielded  by 
any  other  man  on  the  plantation,  and  he  had  no 
equal  among  them  as  a  wood  chopper. 

I  am  just  able  to  remember  Big  Ab's  excite- 
ment at  the  time  of  the  Nat  Turner  insurrection  in 
Virginia.  It  was  reported  that  Turner  was  at  the 
head  of  fourteen  hundred  negroes  at  the  crossing 
of  Dan  River  at  sunset,  and  might  be  expected  to 
reach  our  place,  about  eight  miles  distant,  within 
two  or  three  hours.  The  report  said  that  they 
were  killing  everybody  and  burning  everything  as 
they  came.  Taking  his  big  ax.  Big  Ab  climbed 
to  the  roof  of  the  corncrib  facing  up  the  stage 
road  in  the  direction  whence  Turner  and  his  fol- 
lowers were  expected,  saying:  **  I'd  like  to  see 
any  of  dem  niggers  tech  ole  marster!" 

The    dusky    giant   was    fully    persuaded    that, 

(309) 


3IO  Sunset  Views. 

armed  as  he  was  with  his  huge  weapon,  he  could 
repel  a  whole  army  of  assailants.  The  alarm 
proved  to  be  false.  Nat  Turner  got  his  quietus 
long  before  he  reached  Dan  River  and  the  North 
Carolina  line.  But  had  he  come,  he  would  have 
found  Big  Ab  ready  to  fight  for  his  ole  marster, 
and  willing  to  die  for  him  if  needful.  Ole  Mars- 
ter was  my  great-uncle,  James  Powell;  Big  Ab's 
full  name  was  Abner  Powell,  according  to  the 
fashion  then  prevailing  where  the  patriarchal  in- 
stitution of  *'  domestic  involuntary  servitude  "  ex- 
isted. 

On  another  occasion  very  distinctly  remembered 
by  me  Big  Ab  exhibited  a  very  natural  excitement. 
It  was  at  the  so-called  "falling  of  the  stars," 
which  took  place  in  the  fall  or  winter  of  eighteen 
hundred  and  thirty  something.  I  am  not  good  on 
dates,  but  that  event  has  a  very  distinct  place  in 
my  recollection. 

'*  Look,  Mistis!"  said  Aunt  Ailsie,  bursting  into 
my  mother's  room  in  terror;  "look!  de  stars  is 
all  falling  from  de  sky !  De  day  of  judgment  is 
come!"  Aunt  Ailsie  was  Big  Ab's  amazonian 
black  sister,  and  was  of  the  same  type  of  honesty 
and  faithfulness.  I  shall  never  forget  the  meteoric 
display  I  witnessed  that  night.  It  seemed,  to  use 
the  language  of  a  spectator  who  attempted  to  de- 
scribe it,  as  if  a  great  globe  in  midheaven  had 
burst  into  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  glitter- 
ing fragments  that  were  flying  in  all  directions 
across  the  firmament.  I  have  never  witnessed  any 
other  spectacle  that  equaled  this  in  splendor;  nor 
do  I  expect  to  see  anything  like  it  until  the  com- 
ing of  the  great  day,  when  the  elements  shall  melt 
with  fervent  heat,  the  sun  and  moon  be  darkened, 
and  the  dead,  both  small  and  great,  stand  before 
God  in  the   final  judgment.      And   what  a  night 


Big  Ab :  A   Typical  Old- Time  JVegro.     311 

those  black  folks  made  of  it!  They  sang,  they 
prayed,  they  exhorted,  they  shouted,  they  wept. 
Big  Ab  was  in  his  glory.  He  exhorted  grandly, 
and  was  particularly  impressive  in  rolling  forth 
ponderous  words  that  sounded  like  inspiration  to 
that  excited  audience.  His  faith  was  strong,  and 
he  had  lungs  to  match. 

During  the  Civil  War  Big  Ab  remained  where  he 
was  when  it  began,  pursuing  the  even  tenor  of  his 
way,  and  giving  his  labor  for  the  support  of  the 
family  to  which  he  belonged.  Doubtless  he  watched 
the  course  of  the  struggle  with  the  deepest  interest, 
knowing  how  much  he  had  staked  upon  the  result. 
As  in  most  human  actions,  his  motives  werotmixed : 
family  affection,  the  prudence  demanded  by  one 
in  his  place  at  a  time  when  the  white  folks  of  all 
parts  of  our  country  were  shooting  at  one  anoth- 
er, made  it  a  ticklish  and  perilous  time  for  non- 
combatants  of  all  sorts.  In  this  respect  Big  Ab 
was  a  typical  black  man.  The  great  body  of  the 
negroes  in  the  South  remained  where  they  were 
on  the  farms,  and  worked  in  the  fields  for  the  sup- 
port of  the  Southern  armies,  protecting  the  women 
and  children  whose  husbands,  brothers,  and  sons 
were  there  enrolled.  There  is  nothing  like  this  in 
the  history  of  the  world.  The  remembrance  of  it 
makes  a  hopeful  factor  in  the  present  outlook  with 
reference  to  the  race  problem  in  these  Southern 
States. 

After  the  war  Big  Ab  accepted  his  freedom  and 
became  a  preacher  of  the  Primitive  Baptist  per- 
suasion. He  had  the  confidence  and  good  will  of 
the  white  people  who  knew  his  character,  and 
among  his  own  people  of  color  he  was  an  oracle. 
His  sermons  were  homiletic  gems,  dealing  in  high- 
wrought  figures,  occult  symbolism  with  big  words 
remarkable  for  their  melodiousness,  if  not  for  their 


312  Sunset  Views. 

lucidity.  Speaking  of  him  as  a  preacher,  anothel 
colored  minister  of  the  gospel  was  quoted  as  put- 
ting his  aspirations  as  follows:  *'  Hang  our  jaws 
on  de  hinges  of  heaven,  our  tongues  on  de  root  of 
salvation,  and  we'll  mount  de  milk-white  horse  of 
de  gospel,  and  sail  away  to  Galilee." 

"  Yes,  that  is  Big  Ab's  style,"  was  the  answer; 
**  and  he  can  go  on  in  that  style  interminably, 
without  break  or  pause." 

Big  Ab,  when  last  heard  from,  was  a  notable 
preacher  of  wholesome  influence  among  his  peo- 
ple. His  creed  includes  the  Ten  Commandments, 
his  rhetoric  is  guided  by  good  sense  in  its  most 
flowery  flights,  his  voice  resembles  melodious 
thunder,  while  his  mighty  physique  makes  him  the 
king  of  the  pulpit,  as  he  was  of  the  **  new  ground  " 
when  wielding  his  big  ax  as  a  wood  chopper  on 
the  old  plantation.  In  calling  him  a  typical  black 
man,  I  designedly  seek  to  throw  the  light  of  hope 
on  the  future  of  the  negro  race  in  the  South.  This 
is  said  in  the  belief  that  there  are  a  sufficient  num- 
ber of  his  type  in  these  States  to  leaven  the  huge 
mass  of  these  black  people  who  came  to  their  free- 
dom in  the  midst  of  the  most  complex  conditions, 
but  with  enough  of  the  gospel  of  Christ  in  their 
souls  to  light  their  way  through  the  wilderness  to 
whatever  promised  land  they  are  bound  for.  Big 
Ab  is  worth  whole  acres  of  the  class  of  politicians 
of  whatever  color  who  make  graft  the  object  of 
their  highest  ambition  and  look  to  a  Federal  office 
as  the  climax  of  human  aspiration  and  endeavor. 


ANOTHER  QUESTION  ALL  ARE  ASKING 
WHEN  AND  WHY  DID  MIRACLES 
CEASE? 


ANOTHER  QUESTION  ALL  ARE  ASKING:    WHEN 
AND  WHY  DID  MIRACLES  CEASE  ? 

WHEN  and  why  did  miracles  cease? 
We  cannot  help  asking  this  question. 
Wishing  to  get  the  right  answer  to  it, 
I  consulted  anew  the  commentaries: 
they  differed  one  from  another,  'the 
wisest  among  them  saying  the  least.  I  inquired  of 
living  friends  of  my  own  and  other  communions: 
their  answers  would  make  a  curious  study  for  any 
student  of  human  nature.  The  last  two  persons 
to  whom  I  addressed  this  inquiry  were  doctors  of 
divinity  and  exegetical  experts  who  stood  as  high 
as  the  highest.  Their  answers  made  me  smile  as 
I  read  them.  They  were  both  to  the  same  effect. 
They  did  not  say  explicitly:  "We  do  not  know." 
They  had  been  teachers  in  a  biblical  school,  and 
were  not  in  the  habit  of  parading  their  limitations 
before  the  gaze  of  others,  however  keenly  felt  by 
themselves.  One  said  in  substance:  "Give  me 
time,  and  I  ma)^  send  you  some  sort  of  an  answer 
to  your  question;  it  is  not  a  new  question,  its  im- 
portance cannot  be  denied,  and  I  wish  to  speak 
advisedly."  I  gave  him  time,  but  he  has  not  yet 
given  me  an  answer.  I  do  not  think  less  favor- 
ably of  him  because  of  his  delay.  The  other  doc- 
tor of  divinity  said:  "  Give  me  time,  and  I  will 
answer  if  I  can.  It  seems  harder  for  me  to  find  a 
satisfactory  reply  now  than  it  did  when  my  years 
were  fewer  and  my  reading  more  restricted." 
Both  of  these  brethren  are  still  taking  their  time. 

(3'5) 


3i6  Sunset  Views. 

Blessings  on  their  cautious,  honest  souls!  They 
feel  that  it  is  better  to  be  silent  than  to  talk  at  ran- 
dom or  to  risk  saying  what  might  harm  the  cause 
of  truth.  If  anybody  should  remind  me  that  their 
example  was  a  good  one  for  me  to  follow  in  this 
matter,  I  will  not  take  offense.  For  many  years 
whenever  I  have  thought  that  I  had  something  to- 
say  to  my  people,  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  say- 
ing it  by  word  of  mouth  or  scratch  of  the  pen. 
The  sort  of  answer  that  I  offer  here  will  be  ac- 
cepted as  well  meant  by  the  kindly  constituency 
for  whom  it  has  been  prepared. 

The  question  is.  When  and  why  did  miracles 
cease?  What  I  have  to  say  will  be  given  to  the 
reader  as  it  has  been  given  to  me. 

Let  us  at  the  start  define  what  a  miracle  is  as 
the  word  is  used  in  our  question.  A  miracle  is  a 
work  above  the  ordinary  course  of  nature  wrought 
by  supernatural  power  to  authenticate  a  messenger 
or  message  from  God.  False  miracles  are  imita- 
tions of  these  real  miracles,  and  are  dangerous  ac- 
cording to  the  measure  of  their  resemblance  to  the 
genuine.  That  there  is  a  kingdom  of  evil  antag- 
onizing the  kingdom  of  God  in  the  earth  is  clear- 
ly taught  in  the  Bible,  and  much  that  we  meet 
with  in  human  history  and  in  the  life  that  touches 
our  lives  to-day  can  be  accounted  for  rationally 
and  logically  in  no  other  way  than  by  the  accept- 
ance of  this  strange  and  awful  fact.  Read  Luke 
X.  17-20  and  John  xii.  31.  The  mysteries  belong- 
ing to  this  matter  of  Satanic  existence  and  Satanic 
influence  are  confessedly  great;  but  not  greater 
than  the  mystery  enveloping  this  entire  question  of 
a  spiritual  sphere  that  touches  this  in  which  we 
now  live  and  move  and  have  our  being.  If  we  re- 
ject whatever  we  find  in  the  Holy  Scriptures  that 
transcends  our  comprehension,  we  shall  at  once 


When  and  Why  Did  Miracles  Cease?       317 

find  ourselves  breathing  the  cold,  deadly  miasm  of 
unbelief.  Our  religion  is  supernatural  from  first 
to  last,  and  therefore  more  credible,  if  not  more 
comprehensible,  as  coming  from  God.  His  is  the 
kingdom,  and  the  power,  and  the  glory.  He  will 
reign  whose  right  it  is.  The  gospel  of  Christ  is 
the  Aaron's  rod  that  swallows  up  all  the  inferior 
and  false  systems  of  religion,  so  called,  whether 
the  product  of  Satanic  influence  or  the  offspring 
of  human  folly,  that  now  darken  the  counsels  of 
our  race. 

Miracles,  in  the  sense  in  which  they  are  herein 
considered,  have  never  been  turned  over  to  men 
as  a  field  to  be  worked  according  to  their  own  im- 
pulses, whims,  or  desires.  They  made  bare  the 
Almighty  arm  at  proper  times.  They  spoke  God's 
voice  in  due  season.  When  man  would  intrude 
into  this  sphere  uncalled  and  unguided,  it  is  to 
meet  the  shadow  of  his  impending  doom  like  the 
kingly  but  evil-spirited  Saul  at  Gilboa,  or  to  be 
stricken  with  retributive  lightning  like  Ahab  when 
he  sought  a  message  from  the  false  prophets  whom 
God  had  not  sent,  and  were  ready  to  prophesy 
unto  him  the  lie  that  he  wanted.  The  false  heart 
invites  the  false  prophet,  and  the  false  prophet  is 
the  ready  messenger  of  the  father  of  lies.  True 
miracles  come  under  the  law  that  all  things  in  the 
spiritual  sphere  are  as  truly  under  the  law  as  in  the 
natural  world.  The  pretended  miracle  workers 
who  would  evade  this  law  invite  the  confusion  and 
disaster  that  overtake  them.  There  are  entire  peo- 
ples now  existing  typified  by  the  man  who  went 
out  from  the  prophet's  presence  leprous  as  snow 
because  he  had  forsaken  the  oracles  of  God  and 
listened  to  lying  spirits.  Some  of  these  peoples, 
we  may  hope,  are  ready  for  the  healing  touch  of 
the  Christ;   all  the  fitness  he  requires  is  that  they 


31 8  Sunset  Views. 

feel  their  need  of  him.  He  is  ready,  and  they 
will  be  ready  in  that  day  of  his  power,  which  is 
dawning.  He  will  push  this  work  to  the  comple- 
tion promised  in  the  assurance  that  *'  He  must 
reign  until  he  hath  put  all  enemies  under  his  feet." 
He  must  reign  whose  right  it  is.  It  is  a  moral 
necessity  that  he  shall  not  stop  short  of  this  blessed 
consummation.  How  deep  is  the  meaning  of  the 
words,  "  He  shall  see  of  the  travail  of  his  souU 
and  shall  be  satisfied!"  (Isa.  liii.  ii.)  What 
satisfies  Him  will  leave  no  room  for  complaint  in 
these  sensitive  hearts  of  ours,  endowed  with  capac- 
ity for  loving  with  a  love  that  is  stronger  than 
death  and  as  lasting  as  our  being.  That  word 
*' satisfied"  is  large  enough  for  us  all  as  children 
of  God  and  heirs  of  God  and  joint  heirs  with 
Christ  to  the  inheritance  that  is  undefiled  and  be- 
yond the  possibility  of  defilement,  crowned  with 
the  quality  of  indestructibility  and  incapable  of 
diminution. 

In  no  true  sense  of  the  word  can  it  be  said  that 
God  has  ceased  to  govern  and  guide  in  every 
truest,  highest,  and  best  sense  of  the  word  this 
world  that  he  hath  created  and  redeemed.  We 
can  say  as  truly  as  did  the  Psalmist:  '*  The  Lord 
reigneth  :   let  the  earth  rejoice." 

In  the  special  sense  in  which  the  word  is  here 
used  miracles  did  cease  when  the  gospel  dispensa- 
tion under  which  we  live  was  fully  inaugurated. 
The  miracle  of  miracles  is  that  gospel  in  its  sources 
and  its  agencies. 

The  resurrection  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  is  the 
miracle  of  all  miracles.  It  is  the  best-attested  fact 
in  the  history  of  the  human  race.  That  which  was 
universal  and  abiding  took  the  place  of  that  which 
was  local  and  transient.  The  miraculous  birth, 
personal  ministry,  sacrificial  death  with  attending; 


When  and  Why  Did  Miracles  Cease?       319 

wonders  and  portents,  the  resurrection  on  the 
third  day,  were  facts  authenticated  beyond  cavil  by 
living  witnesses  sufficient  in  number  and  in  char- 
acter combined  to  make  a  mass  of  *'  infallible 
proofs  "  too  strong  to  be  resisted  and  relating  to 
interests  too  important  to  be  neglected  by  rational 
souls  to  whom  they  might  be  made  known. 

The  next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  go  into  all  the 
world  and  preach  this  gospel  as  summed  up  in  its 
meaning  and  claims,  its  duties  and  its  hopes,  in 
these  two  words:  Jesus  and  the  Resurrection. 
Christianity  means  this;  with  its  correlated  facts 
and  results,  means  everything.  The  resurrection 
of  Jesus  proved  all  that  he  had  taught,  authenti- 
cated all  the  wonders  he  had  wrought,  and  guar- 
anteed all  that  he  had  promised.  "  Go  and  preach 
the  gospel,  and  I  will  be  with  you  always,  even 
unto  the  end  of  the  world,"  was  his  command  to  his 
•apostles,  and  through  them  to  their  successors.  It 
had  now  come  to  pass  that  which  is  declared  by 
the  apostle  Paul  (Eph.  i.  10),  "That in  the  dispen- 
sation of  the  fullness  of  times  he  might  gather  to- 
gether in  one  all  things  in  Christ.".  The  reader 
sees  whither  our  argument  leads.  The  miracle  of 
the  resurrection,  all-significant,  all-embracing,  this 
transcendent  miracle  proven  and  proclaimed,  your 
minor  miracles,  that  were  significant  and  valuable 
only  as  they  led  to  this,  sink  into  disuse  and 
vanish. 

The  great  correlated  fact  of  the  gospel  is  that  of 
the  Pentecost,  the  outpouring  of  the  Holy  Spirit  in 
a  fullness  and  power  that  made  it  the  practical  in- 
itiation of  the  new  dispensation.  The  Lord's 
command  to  his  disciples  was  that  they  should  not 
depart  from  Jerusalem,  but  wait  for  the  promise  of 
the  Father.  When  that  promise  was  fulfilled, 
Christianity   was    launched    for    its    voyage   that 


320  *  Sunset  Views. 

would  end  on  the  millennial  shore.  The  fulfill- 
ment is  recorded  by  one  who  knew  the  ** infallible 
proofs,"  and  who  bears  testimony  that  carries  its 
proof  on  its  face,  proof  that  has  stood,  and  will  al- 
ways stand,  all  tests  that  are  fair  and  sane.  Read 
the  account  as  given  in  the  first  and  second  chap- 
ters of  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles.  Read  prayerful- 
ly and  plead  the  promise  as  you  read. 

Put  with  this  the  perpetual  miracle  of  interces- 
sory prayer  which  is  being  enacted  by  the  living 
Church,  which  is  the  depository  of  the  truth  as  it 
is  in  Jesus  and  the  instrument  of  its  propagation. 
Read  in  Matthew  xviii.  19,  20  the  gracious  prom- 
ise: ** Again  I  say  unto  you,  That  if  two  of  you 
shall  agree  on  earth  as  touching  anything  that  they 
shall  ask,  it  shall  be  done  for  them  of  my  Father 
which  is  in  heaven.  For  where  two  or  three  are 
gathered  together  in  my  name,  there  am  I  in  the 
midst  of  them." 

That  Presence  in  the  midst  is  what  God's  peo- 
ple would  naturally  wish  to  be  true.  This  Pres- 
ence in  the  midst  is  that  which,  being  true,  is  the 
perpetual  miracle  that  supersedes  minor  tokens  of 
God's  goodness  and  attests  to  each  generation 
that  this  gospel  is  the  power  of  God  unto  salva- 
tion. 

There  is  the  promise  and  its  fulfillment.  The 
writer  of  this  attempt  to  .answer  the  questions 
herein  propounded  feels  the  fires  of  the  Pentecost 
burning  in  his  soul  as  he  pens  these  lines  on  the 
7th  day  of  February  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
1905.  As  a  young  man,  he  has  had  his  visions; 
as  an  old  man,  he  is  having  his  dreams.  The 
Pentecost  came  to  stay.  It  is  here,  flaming  in 
holy  spiritual  fires  in  Wales,  speaking  with  its 
tongues  of  fire  in  Colorado,  kmdling  its  light  in 
Japan,  and  working  wonders  prefigured  by  these 


When  and  Why  Did  Miracles  Cease?       321 

material  symbols  of  the  events  that  shall  accom- 
pany the  final  victory  of  the  gospel  of  Christ. 
Whenever,  wherever,  and  forever  whosoever  shall 
call  on  the  name  of  the  Lord  shall  be  saved.  Here 
it  is  (John  xvi.  7)  :  **  It  is  expedient  for  you  that  I 
go  away:  for  if  I  go  not  away,  the  Comforter  will 
not  come  unto  you;  but  if  I  depart,  I  will  send 
him  unto  you." 

There  is  the  answer.  It  is  the  reincarnation  of 
the  Son  of  God  in  every  believing  heart.  The 
mystery  of  it  we  cannot  explain.  The  joy  of  it 
we  can  feel.  The  glory  of  it  in  its  final  issues  we 
can  share. 


LED  BY  THE  SPIRIT. 


LED  BY  THE  SPIRIT. 


THIS  sentiment  has  had  a  large  place  in  my 
thought,  a  special  place  in  my  prayers,  and 
a  powerful  influence  on  my  life  for  many 
years.  The  New  Testament  authority  for 
praying  to  be  led  by  the  Holy  Spirit  seems 
to  be  explicit.  The  type  of  piety  developed  under 
this  view  has  always  seemed  to  be  clear  and  strong. 
It  fills  a  human  life  with  glory  and  with  God.  Thus 
Paul  believed  and  spoke.  Thus  Wesley  believed 
and  spoke.  Thus  have  believed  and  spoken  all 
the  men  who  have  brought  things  to  pass  in  the 
history  of  the  Church.  This  is  a  solemn  and 
lofty  thought:  no  degree  of  familiarity  can  make 
it  otherwise.  Led  is  the  word.  The  walling  soul 
gets  the  blessing.  The  blessing  is  offered  to  no 
other.  Willingness  to  be  led  implies  that  the  soul 
is  pivoted  on  the  divine  will.  The  prayer  of  the 
disciple  who  would  be  led  by  his  Lord  is  this: 
'*Thy  will  be  done."  What  does  it  mean  to  be 
led  just  as  I  am  and  where  I  am?     Let  us  see. 

I  seat  myself  at  my  writing  table,  take  pen,  ink, 
and  paper  with  a  wish  in  my  heart  to  obey  that 
command  which  requires  that  a  believer  shall  *'be 
willing  to  communicate."  To  whom  shall  I  write? 
What  shall  I  write?  Does  the  Holy  Spirit  have 
any  function  herein?  Surely,  surely!  At  this 
very  table  on  which  I  am  now  writing  I  have  sat 
down  many  a  time  with  this  prayer  to  be  led  in  the 
use  of  my  pen,  and  my  thoughts  have  taken  a 
special  direction,  the  objects  of  my  prayer  have 
been  made  to  stand  out  graciously  clear,  and  the 

(325) 


326  Sunset  Views, 

very  stationery  on  which  I  have  traced  the  words 
that  have  come  to  me  has  seemed  to  be  suffused 
with  a  heavenly  light.  From  somewhere  came  a 
tenderness,  a  glow,  and  a  sacred  joy  then  and 
there. 

This  very  day,  after  I  had  been  meditating  on 
this  subject  with  an  intense  desire  to  get  the  right 
view  of  it,  and  a  purpose  fixed  and  strong  to  be  led 
according  to  the  promise,  I  visited  one  of  our 
bishops,  a  sufferer  who  had  been  led  to  meditate 
on  this  same  subject.  He  is  a  strong  thinker, 
having  the  learning  of  the  schools,  and  is  a  sweet- 
toned  disciple  of  Jesus.  We  were  led — so  it 
seemed  to  me  with  a  mighty  joy  in  my  soul — to 
exchange  our  thoughts  on  this  subject  of  being 
led  by  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord.  Then  we  bowed 
our  heads  and  united  in  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving 
for  the  blessedness  of  the  fellowship  we  had  with 
our  Lord  and  with  each  other.  The  coincidences 
of  our  communion  were  not  by  chance :  led  is  the 
word. 

In  Nashville  I  had  a  friend  and  neighbor  who 
was  a  chronic  sufferer,  a  man  once  of  buoyant 
animal  spirits  and  large  estate,  who  had  lost  his 
property  and  wrecked  his  health.  One  day  in 
connection  with  his  name  a  passage  of  Scripture 
came  to  my  mind  with  a  very  vivid  impression  that 
I  should  without  delay  make  him  a  visit.  Under 
this  impression  I  went  to  his  house — and  found 
him  dying.  I  delivered  to  him  the  message  I  had 
brought  from  his  Lord,  and  at  his  bedside  offered 
a  prayer  which  had  its  inspiration  in  that  message 
of  God  to  his  suffering  child.  The  message,  the 
subject  thereof,  the  time  of  its  suggestion,  and  of 
its  delivery — as  it  now  seems  to  me  there  was  lead- 
ing at  ever}^  step. 

On  another  day  in  Nashville  some  colored  Meth- 


Led  by  the  Spirit,  327 

odists  asked  me  to  be  present  at  the  closing  exer- 
cises of  one  of  their  colleges.  They  sent  a  car- 
riage for  me,  and  I  went,  straining  a  point  in  doing 
so,  as  it  was  at  a  time  when  my  bodily  weakness 
was  extreme.  It  was  borne  in  upon  me  that,  in- 
stead of  attempting  the  usual  sort  of  speech  for 
such  occasions,  I  should  talk  about  faith  as  the 
condition  of  salvation  for  the  souls  of  men.  This 
took  the  place  of  everything  else.  I  spoke  under 
a  solemn  sense  of  the  divine  presence,  as  it  seemed 
to  me.  In  the  plainest  way  I  sought  to  interpret 
some  New  Testament  teachings  on  that  subject, 
and  ended  with  the  relation  of  my  own  personal 
experience  concerning  it.  A  full  heart  ran  over 
with  its  message.  On  a  front  seat  I  noticed  one 
of  the  students,  a  tall  black  man,  who  was  one  of 
the  expected  graduates  in  the  law  department. 
With  an  expression  of  intense  eagerness  on  his 
face  he  leaned  forward  and  listened  until  I  reached 
the  point  where  I  defined  faith  to  be  choice,  and 
described  when  and  how  I  first  proved  this  to  be 
true  by  my  own  actual  choice  of  Christ  as  I  knelt 
a  penitent  at  the  altar  of  the  church  in  a  revival  of 
the  old  times.  At  that  point  a  new  light  spread 
over  his  face;  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  ascending 
the  platform,  he  grasped  my  hand  warmly,  and 
said:  "Bishop  Fitzgerald,  your  talk  has  made  a 
channel  by  which  I  have  found  Jesus  Christ  as  my 
Saviour.  I  have  made  the  choice,  and  found  ac- 
ceptance." 

It  was  as  clear  a  conversion  as  I  ever  saw.  The 
scene  that  followed  was  unlike  what  is  usually  ex- 
pected on  such  occasions.  A  noted  visitor  from 
the  North  looked  on  with  evident  wonder,  while 
the  colored  preachers,  who  were  there  in  force, 
sang  of  "the  old-time  religion"  with  that  match- 
less  melody  that  is  in  the  voice  when  the  soul  is 


328  Sunset  Views, 

touched  and  led  by  the  Lord.     Led:   it  was  what 
we  all  felt  then  and  there. 

Many  years  ago  I  had  it  in  my  heart  to  write  a 
treatise  on  the  Christian  life.  In  a  circle  of  kindly 
friends  my  purpose  so  to  do  was  bruited:  several 
of  these,  having  different  shades  of  opinion  there- 
on themselves,  suggested  to  me  that  in  the  proposed 
treatise  I  should  take  the  opportunity  to  give  a  defi- 
nition of  holiness  as  it  is  taught  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment. I  felt  a  natural  desire  to  make  such  a  deliv- 
erance,  and  to  put  it  in  such  form  and  spirit  as 
would  make  it  a  blessing  to  my  readers.  The  de- 
liverance was  made.  It  was  inthfese  words:  '*The 
Sun  of  Righteousness  never  sets:  it  shines  for- 
ever; and  on  the  soul  turned  toward  it  in  faith  its 
beams  will  fall  forever.  This  is  holiness.  This  is 
the  new  life  that  is  new  forever."  Here  and  now 
I  am  led  to  say  the  same  thing. 


JOHN  M.  DANIEL  AND  SOME  OF  HIS 
CONTEMPORARIES. 


JOHN  M.  DANIEL  AND  SOME  OF  HIS  CON- 
TEMPORARIES. 


THE  entrance  of  John  M.  Daniel  into  the 
editorial  ranks  was  like  turning  an  electric 
eel  into  a  fish  pond.     In  his  Richmond  tri- 
weekly Exmniner  what  a   shaking-up*  he 
gave  to  their  dullness  and  dignity !    When 
he  wrote  of  the  opposition  he   dipped  his  pen  in 
aqua  fortis.     He  could  not  always  resist  the  temp- 
tation to  put  into  the  pillory  a  fellow-partisan  who 
seemed  disposed  to  make  himself  ridiculous.    The 
average  free  white  American  citizen  likes  this  sort 
of  thing.     Many  a  steady-going  party  man  stole  a 
furtive  glance  at  the  Examiner  to  see  who  was  the 
last  man  that  had  been  *'  blistered  "  in  its  columns. 
The  paper  was  neither  amiable  nor  dull.    John  C. 
Calhoun  was  its  tutelar  political  saint.     The  reso- 
lutions of  1798-99  were  regarded  by  it  as  the  final 
expression  of   political  wisdom.     The   echoes   of 
Andrew  Jackson  were  still  in  the  air,  and  people 
were  then  naming  many  bab,ies  for  that  irascible 
and  invincible  warrior  who  was  always  ready  for 
a  scrap  and  whose  name  is  still  a  spell  to  rouse 
the   faithful.     Party   journalism    was    then   in    its 
blossoming  time  in  this  free-spoken  land.      "  Old 
Father  Ritchie  "  was  at  the  head  of  the  Richmond 
Enquirer,  wherein  he  expounded  the  doctrines  of 
Thomas  Jefferson,   and   warmly  insisted   that,  as 
*'  eternal  vigilance  is  the  price  of  liberty,"  a  true 
disciple  of  State  rights  must  vote  early  and.  at  ev- 
ery  election.     George   D.   Prentice   was   making 
the  Louisville  Journal  the  vehicle  for  uncompli- 

(330 


332  Sunset  Views, 

mentary  allusions  to  the  political  adversary  and 
getting  much  enjoyment  from  the  squirmings  and 
bellowings  of  the  baited  bulls  of  the  partisan  arena. 
Now  and  then  he  dropped  into  verse,  singing  songs 
that  still  linger  in  some  circles.  Colonel  Greene, 
of  the  Boston  Post^  was  putting  into  his  para- 
graphs a  spiciness  that  made  the  very  victims  of 
his  satire  enjoy  it.  Gales  and  Seaton  were  mak- 
ing the  old  Raleigh  Register  ah  arsenal  for  the 
storage  of  political  ammunition,  Daniel  Webster 
and  Henry  Clay  being  the  interpreters  of  the  con- 
stitution whom  they  followed.  William  W.  Holden 
expounded  strict  construction  theories  of  govern- 
ment and  passionately  exhorted  for  State  rights 
in  the  Raleigh  Standard^  making  a  record  which 
was  used  afterwards  by  Zeb  Vance  in  a  way  that 
caused  him  to  feel  that  all  was  vanity.  Charles 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  Evans,  in  the  little  but  lively 
Milton  Chronicle,  was  poking  fun  at  the  Demo- 
crats and  in  other  ways  tickling  the  borders  of 
North  Carolina  and  Virginia  with  an  audacity  that 
nothing  halted  and  a  good  humor  that  was  "  catch- 
ing" with  all  sorts  of  readers.  George  W.  Ken- 
dall was  making  the  New  Orleans  Picayune  as 
benign  as  a  circuit  rider  and  as  bright  as  a  coin  of 
that  denomination  fresh  from  the  mint.  The 
Southern  Literary  Messenger,  intensely  patriotic 
and  a  little  ponderous,  was,  through  John  R. 
Thompson,  telling  its  readers  what  they  ought  to 
do  just  then  in  behalf  of  Southern  literature. 
Young  and  enthusiastic,  with  the  optimism  of  in- 
experience and  high  health,  Robert  H.  Glass, 
through  the  Lynchburg  Refuhlican,  was  winning 
his  spurs  in  the  advocacy  of  the  views  that  in  the 
South  became  more  and  more  pronounced  as  the 
cataclysm  drew  nigher  and  still  nigher  until  it  got 
here  in  the  sixties. 


John  Af.  Daniel,  333 

Just  at  this  time  in  the  current  periodicals  would 
appear  at  short  intervals  something  in  prose  or 
verse  so  unlike  anything  else  that  was  coming  out, 
so  weird  and  so  exquisite  in  the  music  of  its  peri- 
ods, that  the  writer,  one  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  was 
charged  with  lunacy  or  genius  by  the  inquisitive 
literary  public.  He  was  getting  a  hearing  at  least; 
his  critics  thought  he  would  bear  watching  and 
needed  rigid  censorship.  It  was  inevitable  that 
Daniel  and  Poe  should  meet;  each  had  something 
to  say  and  said  it  in  his  own  w^ay.  They  regarded 
each  other  at  first  with  lawful  curiosity,  then  with 
a  sort  of  presentiment  that  they  were  to  hold  rela- 
tions of  special  friendliness  toward  each  other  and 
work  together  for  the  cause  of  liberty  and  letters 
in  the  South.  They  were  a  notable  pair.  I  have 
described  Poe  elsewhere.*  Daniel's  features  were 
as  clear-cut  as  a  cameo,  his  dark  eyes  lighting  up 
his  classic  face,  his  thin  lips  compressed  after  a 
fashion  that  revealed  a  man  who  could  think  and 
who  loved  to  have  his  own  way.  In  the  regular 
issues  of  his  Examiner  he  badgered  and  buffeted 
the  old  Whig  Congressman,  John  Minor  Botts,  in 
a  way  that  was  scarcely  fair  and  yet  was  amusing 
to  the  average  Virginian  of  that  day  of  oratorical 
ponderosity  and  voluminous  printed  disquisition 
from  men  who  felt  inclined  toward  statesmanship 
and  office-holding.  Such  men  were  not  scarce  in 
Virginia  or  other  parts  of  the  South  at  that  time. 
Patriotism  was  never  tongue-tied  with  the  descend- 
ants of  Patrick  Henry  and  his  compatriots.  In 
California  in  the  early  days  if  in  any  mining  camp 
there  was  one  local  politician  who  could  make  a 
speech  at  short  notice,  that  man  was  apt  to  be  a 
Virginian  or  an  Irishman.     The  traditions  of  Vir- 

*See  Harrison's  "Life  and  Letters  of  Poe,"  vol.  i,  p.  316. — Ed. 


334  Sunset  Views. 

ginia  and  Ireland  are  friendly  to  that  sort  of  thing 
from  away  back.  One  of  Daniel's  associates  was 
a  notability  of  the  Patrick  Henry  clan — Patrick 
Henry  A34ette,  of  King  William  County,  a  man 
giantlike  in  physical  dimensions,  who  knew  some 
law  and  much  politics,  who  wrote  for  the  Exam- 
iner, who  interested  himself  personally  in  Poe  and 
Dani-el,  and  whose  animal  spirits  and  good  temper 
never  failed.  I  knew  two  others  of  this  same  Henry 
family  who  were  alike  noted  for  their  gigantic 
size — Capt.  Nat.  Henry  and  'Squire  Spottswood 
Henry  by  name.  The  former  was  a  cross  between 
Lord  Chesterfield  and  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson;  he 
was  ruffled  and  perfumed  like  the  one,  and  had  a 
vocabulary  and  magnificently  rolling  diction  like 
the  other.  After  running  through  with  a  large  es- 
tate, he  served  his  fellow-citizens  in  the  Dan  River 
valley  as  a  schoolmaster.  Blessings  on  his  memory ! 
To  hear  him  talk,  and  recite  to  him,  was  like  tak- 
ing a  postgraduate  course  in  the  urbanities.  Plis 
manners  bore  the  genuine  colonial  stamp,  and  he 
had  at  some  former  period  of  his  life  absorbed  a 
whole  library  of  information  suited  to  a  country 
gentleman  who  had  leisure  and  means.  The  other 
brother,  'Squire  Spottswood  Henry,  was  almost  as 
fluent  in  speech  and  massive  in  dimensions. 

Those  boys  of  the  old  days  who  were  reared  in 
the  country,  who  learned  to  ride  on  horseback 
earlier  than  they  could  remember,  and  could 
handle  a  fishing-pole  and  **  tote  "  a  gun  before 
they  could  cipher  as  far  as  the  single  rule  of  three, 
were  big  all  over  and  strong  all  through.  Longev- 
ity was  the  rul-e  with  them.  Specialists  in  medical 
science  had  not  invented  so  many  diseases  and 
their  remedies  at  that  time,  and  indoor  athletics 
had  not  been  so  generally  adopted  as  a  substitute 
for  the  open  air. 


John  M,  Daniel.  335 

Daniel  invented  special  epithets  to  describe  the 
**  Bison,"  as  he  called  Botts,  the  loud-voiced  and 
free-thinking  patriot  above  alluded  to,  and  man- 
aged to  make  all  references  to  him  more  pictur- 
esque than  favorable.  The  Richmond  Whig  yN2i^ 
at  that  time  the  brilliant  metropolitan  organ  of  a 
minority  party,  except  that  from  time  to. time  a 
wave  of  reform,  so-called,  v^ould  sweep  over  the 
commonwealth,  astonishing  both  parties  by  a  re- 
versal of  majorities,  burying  old  party  leaders  and 
bringing  new  men  to  the  front.  The  Whig  was 
edited  by  John  Hampden  Pleasants,  aparagrapher 
like  Henry  Watterson,  who  could  run  into  a  two- 
column  disquisition  concerning  any  man  or  ques- 
tion he  cared  for  on  the  shortest  notice.  Clay  and 
Webster  still  so  dominated  their  party  that  the  or- 
thodoxy of  the  paper  was  measured  by  its  agree- 
ment with  the  policies  they  stood  for.  Whenever 
a  hostile  head  appeared,  the  Examiner  y^di^  ready 
to  hit  it.  The  Young  South,  of  which  it  was  the 
champion,  was  combative  and  alert,  not  lacking  in 
self-confidence,  believing  that  it  had  found  the  so- 
lution of  all  political  difficulties  in  the  democracy 
that  guarded  minority  rights  with  special  courage 
and  vigilance  on  the  one  hand  and  held  fast  to 
hereditary  compromises  on  the  other.  Poe  was 
drawn  into  affiliation  with  this  element,  and  made 
the  Examiner  the  channel  of  communication  with 
the  South  just  as  it  was  awakening  to  literary  con- 
sciousness and  getting  a  glimpse  of  its  possibilities 
in  letters  and  statecraft  all  its  own.  Had  Poe 
lived,  who  knows  what  might  have  been  done  by 
him  in  this  field? 

Blossoming  time  for  the  editorial  fraternity  in 
this  part  of  our  country  is  the  phrase  I  have  used, 
and  it  seems  to  me  to  be  well  chosen.  Dr.  Leroy 
M.  Lee  was  making  a  militant  organ  of  the  Rich- 


33<^  Sunset  Views. 

mond  Christian  Advocate.  He  was  a  contro- 
versialist who  used  good  English  and  believed  in 
experimental  religion  as  taught  by  the  fathers  of 
Methodism.  In  the  Christian  Advocate  and  Jour- 
nal the  elder  Dr.  Bond  was  demonstrating  that  or- 
thodoxy was  not  a  synonym  for  dullness,  rallying 
the  faithful  and  routing  the  enemy  in  his  weekly 
issues.  Dr.  J.  B.  Jeter,  in  the  Religious  Herald^ 
a  big  man  who  knew  books  and  had  a  good  opin- 
ion of  the  world  he  lived  in,  was  giving  the  Bap- 
tists an  organ  that  had  breadth  and  depth  and  did 
not  lack  denominational  zeal.  McTyeire,  Deems, 
Wightman,  Doggett,  Keener,  Capers,  Gillespie, 
Myers,  and  Parker  were  coming  on,  the  blossom- 
ing of  their  genius  showing  itself  already  in  the 
journalism  of  the  Church  and  elsewhere.  What 
these  men  wrote  runs  through  the  literature  of 
their  Church  like  veins  of  gold  through  ledges  of 
quartz.  I  do  not  know  that  Dr.  John  E.  Edwards 
ever  edited  anything,  but  I  do  know  that  this  mar- 
velous declaimer  was  not  averse  to  seeing  his  views 
in  print  over  his  own  signature.  A  marvelous  de- 
claimer he  was!  "There  are  in  these  United 
States  of  America  two  great  declaimers,  Rufus 
Choate  and  John  E.  Edwards — and  the  greater  of 
the  twain  is  the  preacher" — so  said  a  well-known 
politician  from  the  North  after  hearing  Edwards 
in  the  pulpit.  Here  was  a  pulpit  eagle  that  soared 
and  shined  of  a  truth.  The  sympathetic  reader 
will  understand  how  it  is  that  Edwards's  name  ap- 
pears among  those  of  these  editors:,  he  belonged 
to  their  period,  and  was  a  man  of  genius,  a  North 
Carolinian  who  was  never  spoiled  by  popularity 
and  who  never  lost  the  glow  that  he  caught  as  a 
boy  converted  to  God  in  the  Rockingham  hills. 
The  English  Bible  gave  him  his  style,  and  the 
Holy  Spirit  gave  him  the  touch  of  power. 


SUNSET  VIEWS  FROM  MY  BEDROOM 
WINDOW. 


22 


SUNSET  VIEWS  FROM  MY  BEDROOM  WINDOW. 


THE  sunset  view  from  my  bedroom  window 
shows  me  a  world  that  excites  at  once  my 
wonder  and  pity  and  calls  to  mind  the 
heaven  of  infinite  blessedness  revealed  to 
my  faith.  Compassion  for  the  world  in 
its  sorrow  and  pain  is  awakened  whenever  my 
gaze  is  turned  in  that  direction.  A  mighty  joy 
comes  down  into  my  soul  w^henever  my  sunset 
view  takes  in  the  promise  and  the  hope  of  the 
heaven  revealed  to  my  understanding  by  the  Word 
of  God  and  certified  to  my  glad  heart  by  the  Holy 
Spirit.  The  pity  that  weeps  over  the  sorrows  of 
earth,  the  rapture  that  is  felt  in  anticipation  of 
what  heaven  discloses  to  my  sunset  view — these 
are  emotions  that  mingl'e  in  my  soul  as  I  look  out 
of  my  window.  Looking  forth  upon  the  world  as 
it  is,  I  feel  that  I  might  be  glad  to  recover  some 
part  of  the  strength  that  was  mine  at  an  earlier 
day  and  help  to  lift  some  of  its  burden  of  sorrow. 
I  look  upward  to  the  sky  that  bends  above  these 
Tennessee  hills  and  feel  a  mighty  drawing  toward 
its  blessed  mysteries.  Those  mysteries:  they  lie 
so  close  to  us  here,  and  yet  are  so  fascinating  to 
us  because  of  this  very  fact  that  they  are  myste- 
ries. We  were  thus  endowed  at  the  start;  our 
nature  is  whetted  in  its  capacity  and  passion  for 
the  progress  which  will  be  a  factor  in  our  felicity 
forever. 

Looking  out  of  my  window  southerly  the  mod- 
est spire  of  the  Blakemore  Chapel  comes  to  view; 
here  the  people  called  Methodists  meet  and  wor- 

(339) 


340  Sunset  Views. 

ship  and  work  to  help  one  another  on  to  glory  and 
to  God.  As  I  look  with  good  wishes  in  my  heart, 
from  the  Vanderbilt  University  campus  just  behind 
me  rings  a  bell  which  betokens  something  special 
for  that  company  of  persons  who  study  and  teach, 
who  believe  in  God  as  creator  and  at  the  same 
time  believe  in  him  as  their  Father  in  heaven. 
Methodism  was  born  in  a  university.  The  genu- 
ine type  of  Methodism  goes  everywhere.  Its  best 
type  illustrates  the  well-attested  truth  that  genuine 
scholarship  has  an  affinity  with  true  religion.  Ig- 
norance is  the  mother,  not  of  devotion,  but  of  the 
credulity  which  invites  deception  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  the  bigotry  which  prompts  persecution  on 
the  other.  The  Methodism  presented  to  my  sunset 
view  awakens  fresh  gratitude  for  what  it  has  done 
in  the  past  and  evokes  a  prayer  warm  from  my  in- 
most soul  that  it  may  be  true  to  itself  and  to  God 
for  all  time  to  come. 

My  sunset  view  rests  at  times  upon  the  new 
Roman  Catholic  school  edifice  that  crowns  the 
highest  point  of  the  hill  that  rises  southward.  That 
site  might  well  have  been  foreordained  for  some 
public  institution.  Our  Roman  Catholic  friends 
are  not  the  only  people  that  have  a  way  of  work- 
ing strenuously  for  the  fulfillment  of  divine  prom- 
ises as  interpreted  by  themselves.  They  see  no 
need  that  faith  and  works  shall  be  divorced.  A 
defective  interpretation  at  this  point  has  made  the 
trouble  for  all  concerned.  The  attempt  to  make 
a  worldly  kingdom  of  the  Church  was  against 
Christ's  express  command.  "  My  kingdom,"  he 
said,  "is  not  of  this  world."  In  proportion  as 
you  put  the  world  into  the  Church,  just  in  the 
same  proportion  do  you  dim  the  Church's  glory 
and  diminish  its  power.  Europe  is  unlearning  its 
errors,  and  retracing  its  steps  in  this  connection. 


Sunset  Views  from  My  Bedroom  Window,  341 

In  our  New  World  here  in  America  we  hope  to 
escape  the  mistakes  made  over  there,  and  to  keep 
the  peace  while  we  shun  the  wrong.  Our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  tells  us  that  his  followers  should  all 
be  one  even  as  he  and  his  Father  are  one.  (See 
John  xvii.  21.)  That  saying  covers  this  whole 
question.  That  which  he  has  promised  he  will 
surely  bring  to  pass.  So  we  will  put  our  trust  in 
him,  and  be  patient.  We  will  live  and  let  live. 
The  trend  of  our  times  is  toward  that  toleration 
which  is  the  basis  of  that  unity  which  will  be  gen- 
uine and  lasting.  Thus  nearly  all  of  us  feel  in 
these  United  States.  The  exceptions  are  fewer 
from  year  to  year:  the  dissenters  grow  less  and 
less  formidable.  At  this  point  comes  in  my  short 
creed:  *' I  love  everybody  in  the  world — some 
more  than  others."  Most  of  my  readers  will 
agree  to  this.  Let  us  all  who  so  profess  make 
sure  that  we  give  each  clause  of  this  creed  its  full 
weight  in  the  application  of  it.  The  sunset  view 
from  my  bedroom  takes  in  its  sweep  a  unified 
Christianity. 

Looking  out  of  my  window,  the  charred  and 
blackened  walls  of  Roger  Williams  University, 
lately  destroyed  by  fire,  meet  my  gaze.  Roger 
Williams  University,  my  readers  know,  is  the 
school  for  our  colored  neighbors.  Blessings  on 
these  black  believers !  They  are  not  yet  out  of 
the  wilderness.  None  of  us  are  out  of  the  wil- 
derness in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word.  But 
the  Promised  Land  awaits  us  all  if  we  do  not 
willfully  turn  backward.  God  knew  what  he  was 
doing  when  he  allowed  the  negro  problem  to  be 
transferred  from  Africa  to  America.  He  knew 
these  Southern  people,  with  whom  the  negro's 
lot  was  specially  cast.  He  knew  that,  with 
all  their  faults,  these  Southerners  had  their  full 


342  Sunset  Views. 

share  of  the  magnanimity  and  patience  required 
for  the  transition  stages  of  advancement  for  a  race 
that  was  belated  in  the  start.  I  feel  like  prophe- 
sying, not  smooth  things  but  great  things.  Some 
follies  have  already  been  exploded ;  some  persons 
are  wiser  than  they  were  in  the  North  and  the 
South,  in  the  East  and  the  West.  The  old  land- 
marks abide.  The  golden  rule,  lifted  up  in  these 
troubled  waters,  sheds  its  light  in. the  midst  of  the 
darkness.  There  is  more  common  sense  in  the 
interpretation  of  this  rule,  and  not  less  of  the  spirit 
of  the  Christ  who  came  to  seek  and  to  save  us  all. 
The  negro  question  will  be  settled  finally  in  a  way 
that  will  be  pleasing  to  God,  who  is  the  God  of  all 
the  families  of  the  earth.  While  this  is  being 
done,  the  work  of  doing  it  will  be  educative  to  the 
white  people  of  the  United  States,  who,  with  all 
their  acquirements,  have  yet  much  to  learn.  Cyn- 
icism and  misanthropy  on  the  one  hknd,  and  fanat- 
icism in  all  its  phases,  will  be  equally  at  a  discount. 
Patriotism  with  a  good  heart — religion  with  good 
sense — will  work  together  for  us  all.  The  best  is 
yet  to  come  for  us  all. 

The  sunset  view  of  the  landscape  from  my  bed- 
room window  never  tires.  It  has  a  charm  all  its 
own  for  every  day  in  the  year,  and  a  special  charm 
for  each  of  the  four  seasons.  This  view  begins 
in  beauty  and  ends  in  glory.  Sloping  up  from 
the  valley  are  the  nearer  hills,  varying  in  their  out- 
hnes  and  covered  with  oak,  hickory,  poplar,  and 
all  the  varied  growth  of  the  Tennessee  woods. 
Beyond  and  above  these  rise  the  two  bluish  peaks 
that  never  lose  their  charm  for  me.  They  speak 
to  me  in  the  language  of  Nature,  and  I  listen  with 
a  satisfaction  that  is  never  lost.  Above  these  hills 
is  the  sky — the  heavens  that  declare  the  glory  of 
God,   the  firmament  that    shows  his  handiwork. 


Sunset  Views  from  My  Bedroom  Window.  343 

The  glory  of  God  is  the  supreme  glory.  Atheism 
is  the  crowning  absurdity.  It  seems  to  be  an 
idiocy  in  the  presence  of  these  sunset  views. 
*'The  fool  says  in  his  heart,  There  is  no  God.'' 
As  I  trace  these  last  lines  the  words  of  Asaph,  the 
psalmist,  sing  to  my  heart  a  song  of  joy:  **  My 
flesh  and  my  heart  faileth:  but  God  is  the  strength 
of  my  heart,  and  my  portion  forever.'' 


A  FRESH  INTERPRETATION. 


A   FRESH   INTERPRETATION. 

THE  significance  of  the  concluding  clause 
of  this  twenty-first  verse  of  this  twenty- 
fifth  chapter  of  Matthew  was  illustrated  in 
the  last  sickness  of  Bishop  Hargrove,  which 
was  so  long  protracted  and  so  pathetic  from 
the  fact  of  its  absolute  incurability  from  the  start. 
I  had  the  privilege  of  visiting  him  from  time  to 
time  during  all  these  long  months  of  affliction, 
<iuring  which  he  was  watched  over  with  unremit- 
ting vigilance  and  tenderly  ministered  unto  by  the 
faithful  wife  who  gave  herself  to  this  holy  office  as 
only  a  woman  can,  self-forgetting,  never  tiring. 
In  my  interviews  with  him,  the  rule  was  that  I  got 
a  blessing,  whether  I  left  a  blessing  with  him  or 
not.  The  testimony  he  gave  in  these  interviews 
might  be  expressed  in  the  very  words  of  the 
psalmist:  ''My  flesh  and  my  heart  faileth:  but 
<jrod  is  the  strength  of  my  heart,  and  my  portion 
forever."  He  knew  in  whom  he  had  believed; 
his  foundation  stood  sure;  his  consolation  was 
strong.  On  the  occasion  of  one  of  these  visits, 
after  we  had  prayed  together,  he  said,  "  I  have  no 
pain  of  body,  nor  worry  of  mind;"  and  his  face 
was  as  serene  as  a  cloudless  morning  on  the  Ten- 
nessee hills.  So  it  was  always  when  he  was  able 
to  join  in  the  prayer.  On  one  occasion  I  w^as  too 
weak  to  give  him  the  message  I  had  brought  for 
him,  and  he  was  too  weak  to  receive  it.     But  we 

(347) 


34^  '  Sunset  Views. 

inclined  our  heads  in  the  attitude  of  prayer  and  in 
the  spirit  of  submission.  When  we  parted  that 
(fay  his  face  showed  what  my  own  heart  felt — 
namely,  that  we  had  received  a  fresh  interpreta- 
tion, sweet  and  solemn,  of  the  scriptural  assurance 
that  "  the  Spirit  helpeth  our  infirmities." 


THE  MASTER'S  MESSAGE. 


THE  MASTER'S  MESSAGE. 

ONE  day  I  visited  a  Christian  friend  who 
had  been  a  great  sufferer  from  bodily 
affliction.  Nervous  depression  was  a 
part  of  his  trouble,  and  not  the  least  dis- 
tressing. I  carried  him  a  message,  not 
my  own,  but  from  my  Lord.  You  may  find  it  in 
John  xiv.  6:  '*  I  am  the  way,  the  truth,  and  the 
life."  After  reading  the  precious  passage,  fa- 
miliar but  as  fresh  as  the  dews  of  heaven,  we 
knelt  and  united  in  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving,  tak- 
ing the  words  as  the  motto  for  our  supplication. 
The  prayer  was  something  like  this:  **  Blessed 
Lord,  many  years  ago  we  placed  our  faith  on  thee 
as  the  way,  the  truth,  and  the  life.  We  looked  to 
thee  as  the  w^ay,  and  we  have  never  been  misled. 
We  looked  to  thee  as  the  truth,  and  we  have  never 
been  deceived.  We  looked  to  thee  as  the  life,  and 
found  peace  and  hope  and  a  joy  that  was  unspeak- 
able. We  would  now  with  thankful  hearts  renew 
this  vow  of  consecration.  We  would  exercise 
now  that  faith  which  is  the  choice  of  our  hearts. 
Without  any  reservation,  without  any  trouble  of 
heart  because  of  mysteries  we  cannot  fathom, 
without  any  shadow  of  doubt  or  discouragement 
because  of  the  sorrow  and  pain  that  may  have 
fallen  to  our  lot— »-we  would  take  thee,  blessed 
Christ,  as  the  way,  the  truth,  and  the  life." 

We  rose  from  our  knees  and  the  face  of  my  suf- 
fering friend  and  brother  reflected  the  joy  that 
filled  my  own  soul.  With  the  Master's  message 
came  to  us  the  Master's  blessing. 

(350 


HEREDITY. 

23 


HEREDITY. 

EVERY  natural  law  works  for  the  man  who 
does  the  best  he  can  where  he  is  and  as  he 
is.  **  The  fathers  have  eaten  sour  grapes, 
and  the  children's  teeth  are  set  on  edge. 
As  I  live,  saith  the  Lord  God,  ye  shall  not 
have  occasion  anymore  to  use  this  proverb  in  Israel. 
.  .  .  The  soul  that  sinneth,  it  shall  die."  ("Ezek. 
xviii.  2-4. )  Every  man  will  stand  or  fall  according 
to  his  own  choice,  and  the  responsibility  of  each 
one  is  measured  by  his  opportunity.  That  is  a 
ray  of  Old  Testament  light  in  a  dark  place. 

We  have  a  word  from  St.  Paul  (Rom.  viii.  28) 
which  outweighs  all  the  "  if s  "  and  guesses  of 
doubt  and  unbelief  in  this  our  day:  *' We  know 
that  all  things  work  together  for  good  to  them  that 
love  God."  In  *'all  things"  we  may  include 
heredity.  This  word  illuminates  the  whole  heav- 
ens to  the  eye  of  faith. 

(355) 


"THE  GOAL." 


"  THE  GOAL." 

UNDER  this  head  many  years  ago  I  wrote 
a  brief  closing  chapter  to  my  little  treatise 
on  '*  Christian  Growth."  For  reasons 
that  will  be  understood  by  at  least  some 
of  my  readers  I  insert  here  the  closing 
paragraph : 

*'I  was  profoundly  interested  in  this  question 
[that  of  entire  sanctification]  about  twenty-five 
years  ago.  I  was  then  the  pastor  of  the  Church 
at  San  Jose,  Cal.  One  bright  morning  I  was 
walking  through  the  fields  on  my  way  to  visit  a 
young  Presbyterian  friend  who  lay  dying  of  con- 
sumption in  *The  Willows,'  a  suburb  about  two 
miles  from  the  city.  The  sky  was  cloudless  and 
the  air  was  balmy,  the  birds  were  singing  in  the 
sycamores  overhead,  and  the  sunshine  lay  bright 
and  warm  upon  the  beautiful  valley.  As  I  walked 
slowly  on,  my  soul  was  attuned  to  the  repose,  the 
harmony,  and  the  sweetness  of  nature.  I  felt,  a 
mighty  longing  for  that  perfect  peace  of  God,  that 
rest  of  faith,  which  had  so  long  engaged  my  thought 
and  prayer.  Lifting  my  eyes,  I  beheld  the  sun  in 
the  heavens  shining  with  unclouded  splendor.  In- 
stantly the  great  truth  flashed  upon  me.  It  was 
almost  as  if  an  audible  voice  had  said  to  me: 
*  The  Sun  of  Righteousness  always  shines,  and 
upon  the  soul  turned  toward  it  in  humble,  trusting 
obedience  it  will  shine  forever.'  My  spirit  was 
instantly  flooded  with  a  great  joy,  and  I  said  to 
myself:    *  This  is  what  I  so  long  have  sought — the 

(359) 


360  Sunset  Views. 

Sun  of  Righteousness  shines  forever/  Long, 
long  years  of  toil  and  trial,  of  pain  and  sorrow, 
have  passed  since  that  hour,  and  the  same  light 
shines  on  the  page  as  I  write  these  last  lines  with 
a  glowing  heart." 

The  foregoing  was  written  in  1882.  This  is  the 
year  of  our  Lord  1905.  To  my  own  surprise, 
through  the  patience  and  mercy  of  God,  I  am  still 
alive,  with  a  mighty  joy  in  my  heart,  and  a  hope 
that  maketh  not  ashamed.  This  is  the  goal  as  I 
understand  the  meaning  of  Christian  perfection,  or 
sanctification,  as  some  would  call  it.  *'  It  is  the 
perfection  of  a  faith  that  does  not  waver,  of  a 
consecration  that  keeps  nothing  back,  of  a  love 
that  never  grows  cold,  of  a  hope  that  is  full  of 
glory.'*  This  is  the  normal  type  of  the  true  Chris- 
tian life  as  I  see  it  described  in  the  Holy  Scriptures 
that  are  able  to  make  us  wise  unto  salvation  in  all 
the  fullness  and  sweetness  of  the  meaning  of  the 
words.  Slightly  paraphrased,  this  is  the  experi- 
ence I  have  realized.  And  this  is  the  testimony 
of  my  heart  as  I  now  turn  my  sunset  view  to  the 
hills  of  God  that  stretch  on  and  on  forever. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

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t 

r^n 

INTSR-LIBRARI 

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DECS     '-3^! 

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(6889sl0)476B                                    University  of  California 

Berkeley 

YB  33656 


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